A good first impression

Having secured a weekend job at a smart clothing shop, Mr E decided to celebrate his employability by venturing out in to the moonlit London streets with some companions. Only associating himself with the most trendy of friends he followed them to a drinking establishment in exclusive Mayfair. A wink at the bouncer and his name on a list, Mr E found himself quickly pressed up against the crowded bar and his eyes bulged at the unreasonable prices… Plunging his hand into his shallow pocket he drew a 50 pence piece, which he quickly replaced. He headed back towards the door, signalling to his cohorts that he was just popping out for a cigarette (relevant sign-language gestures made across the crowd), he scampered back out on to the street and into a neighbouring hotel bar. Mr E scanned the menu for a drink with a low price and a high alcoholic percentage and ordered a rum punch. He took a sip through his straw and complained to the waiter that the cocktail was too weak; it was accordingly topped up. Sidling down the bar to the next waiter, he repeated his complaint, and again his drink was replenished until it was a little less punch and a lot more rum. Ditching the straw he finished his drink and rejoined his mates across the road.

Now that he was well into the swing of the evening and Mr E was smiling his rather charming, lopsided smile he accepted a drink of a lovely American, who claimed she had met him before. Oh yes… lied Mr E, and led her to the dance floor. Knowing he had sacrificed his weekends for his job, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he had heroic stamina, and that one late would hardly affect his customer service.

The sound of the alarm in the morning was most unwelcome. Mr E groaned and dragged himself out of bed, leaving his brain on the pillow, and his aching body carried his empty head back down towards Piccadilly where he was issued with a shirt (a loan only) and set to work on the shop floor asking customers if he could help and knowing that he couldn’t. Aside from standing there and reading the label out to them, confirming the size, price and colour of the item, he could answer none of their queries without checking with the boss. He hadn’t even been there an hour when he felt the prickly heat of nausea climbing up his collar and he dashed down to the basement loos and locked himself in a cubicle. Twice more that day he returned to the basement, wiping his brow and blinking into the mirror before resurfacing to the shop floor.  

He arrived home that evening, half delirious from the effort of making it through the day, prepared himself a hefty snack and wolfed it with pints of sweet ribena. And he passed out in front of the telly.