Living with the mafia

So my current financial crisis means I’m moving around a lot, sleeping wherever there is space for me on a friend’s couch or spare bed. For the past month, I was lucky enough to get to stay in Covent Garden, which should really be called, ‘Coveted Garden’ because let’s face it, who wouldn’t want to live there? A few days ago, I moved to Enfield, which is – wait for it – in ZONE 5. For those of you who don’t know London, that might as well be the Bermuda triangle. Last night the night bus took me almost 2 hours to get home; it was epic. I am also living with: one Serb, two Russians, and some Albanians upstairs who seem to be running a brothel…or a drug cartel…or something sinister. I can’t help thinking that if someone messes up the Borscht we’ll have another Balkan War on our hands.

Tonight I have to make the long trek into central London to go to work. Currently, the only thing that stands between me and total hobo-ism is the fact that, two nights a week, I put on a miniscule ‘wench’ dress, strap a leather harness to my body (yes, I know it sounds dirty, it is) and try to sell tequila or sambucca shots to people who don’t really want them. This is not an easy job. Firstly, Brits, as a rule, aren’t big shot-drinkers. They like beer, pints actually, but somehow the idea of strapping a beer keg to by body doesn’t quite appeal to me. Anyway, the other problem is that the shots are usually 3.50 (in pounds, which makes them approx. R40). This is pretty obscene in any currency, and Britain is currently in the grip of the most God-awful Recession, so it takes some serious persuasion to sell 3 bottles a night. But I do it. Somehow, with enough flirting and cajoling and manipulating and downright bullying, I do it. And it utterly exhausts me.

Some of my favourite statements that I hear whilst at work:

“Oh my God, you must have the coolest job!” – You try it.

“How much for you?” – Buddy, you could never afford it.

“It’s my Birthday, can I have a free shot?”  – Happy Birthday, and No. Don’t try begging, I’m from South Africa, we’re immune to it.

“I can’t, I’m driving.” – No one under the age of 40 drives in central London. The congestion charge is 8 pounds and your public transport system makes driving cars obsolete.

“I don’t drink.” – This the man says with an absolutely straight face whilst holding a beer.

They say that great art is born from adversity. In that case, I am destined for greatness.