Summer loving

Continuing the theme of my wasted summers of youth, I used to work as a deliverygirl- (and I do mean that it was in my youth, and it was not last year or anything). I worked at this Chinese takeaway, lets call it" Sam Wong's", which was really the only vaguely ethnic eating option in the dreary provincial town I grew up in. My job that long hot golden summer was, on the surface, to deliver congealing, over-MSGed cartons of Chow Mein and sweet and sour pork to the hungry masses by scooter.

Needless to say, my work was not made easier by the bloody Spice Girls who were at the start of their metoric rise and who dominated my walkman's radio. But, all things considering, they were the least of my worries. The assorted wierdos, social malcontents and oddballs that comprise of the chinese food eating general public were easily above Bunton et al. Those creepy men that would invite me in despite the fact they were clearly naked underneath their dressing gowns. The yapping dogs that would try to take a chunk of my leg along with the egg friend noodles.

Especially unamusing was the lengthy, needless waits as the hapless diner would suddenly remember they had ordered food and would be expected to pay, and "would you mind waiting while I search my entire house for money, you know to pay you with?". Instead of replying, "Yes, I do mind. How about, you know, actually anticipating I will need money and have it ready for me? If you are that dim, do you think you may need me to show you how to chew the food as well?" I just smiled sweetly and told them to take all the time they wanted. After all, my underappreciated arse would only be too happy to get yelled at in Mandarin by Mrs Wong, who seemed to know only two words in English "Fuck" and "money".

The job paid minium wage, and not the comfortable fiver and change an hour nowadays, but the early hourly minimum wage that would not even get you the Sunday Times (and that included tips). For eight long weeks, while my friends had barbeques, snogged boys and watched Bruce Willis films, I learned to hate the rain with a passion and cheated death on the road so many times, I figure I must be on his urgent-shortlist by now.

What struck me most was the casual racism. Although I harboured no particular love for the Wong clan during that summer, I did take offence at the delightful language used liberally by our customers. "The chinkee is here" often heralded my arrival, as did jokes about hiding the dog in case I would cook it. That was not as bad as the arseholes who would mimic and exaggerate Sam's fairly faint Chinese accent (he was living in England since the 60s) "Ah so, Tooo flied whice" some drunken tosser would spout, as I grimaced while silently trying to communicate with Sam that the majority of White Britons were generally a friendly bunch of people and that we weren't all like this tosser.

Fast forward back to tonight, and I am ordering Chinese food. If you are too remember to:
- Have your money ready
- Put a light on so they know which house to come to
- Dress decently.
- Tip the delivery person (odds are they are paid less than you)
- Thank god, or whoever, you are not standing on a strangers doorstep handing food over in the rainy twilight.