THE TIME I FED THERESA MAY A FINGER SANDWICH.

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Some call it a side hustle, I call it a B-job.

People in the arts, entrepreneurs or academics tend to have a B-job so that they can do their A-job, or pursue ‘their calling’… An actor may be a bartender, or an academic may do some tutoring.

2014, I was 23 and living in Southwest London, when I spotted the ad to join a temporary staff agency; flexible, no experience required, a training day… it was all I wanted from a B-job.

At the training day it became apparent that the agency didn’t have high expectations.

I couldn’t quite get the cork out with the waiter’s friend corkscrew that they required us to use. (I had only ever used the corkscrew with the big arms that cheered you on as you screwed down, as if saying…“WAAAYHEEEY!”)

And when it was my turn to balance the five plates on my arms, all the plastic carrots rolled off onto the floor. Yet, I got my B-job.

I was disheartened to find that the uniform was deliberately unsexy. (See post about how much I love an outfit here). I couldn’t channel the Rachel Green waitress look, with a cute skirt and a tiny waist apron. Nope. It was black straight trousers, dumpy shoes, and a man’s shirt, buttoned to the top to hide any evidence that you had boobies.

You also had to stick your hair up in this tight, tight doughnut bun that made you look bald. This wasn’t so bad when I joined the gaggle of other clunky waitresses, but when I was alone on the tube, I had the urge to let every attractive man know that I didn’t usually dress like an off-duty vicar.

My first job was at the Victoria & Albert Museum, where I had a dessert tower put around my neck. The aim was to balance the bowls of moose and cupcakes on the tower as I meandered around guests, whilst also trying not to knock over an ancient Greek statue. Other events followed; like a breakfast in an empty office space off Trafalgar Square, and a champagne reception on Pall Mall.

The job was fun, the people… not so much.

The event managers always seemed to be a canapé tray away from a breakdown. They spoke to us like we were automated robots that could only function if the instructions were short and shouted.

“Join THIS line, and take THIS plate, and take it to THAT table.”

“Take out the salmon last. SALMON. LAST. Got it?”

Once an events manager, (who had one of those bob haircuts that warned you about her personality before you even spoke to her), grabbed my shoulders with a tight grip.

“No, you go over HERE,” she squawked as she marched me to a table.

I stood with my mouth opened, flabbergasted. Well, I never.

The guests were not much better. Perhaps I was expecting too much from the interaction, but people would nab a canapé without a thanks. They would dump their dirty champagne flutes on my tray, which was CLEARLY filled with fresh champagne flutes. The worst types were the ones who would order something without looking up from their plate.

“What was that madame?” I’d ask, again and again, until they finally got the game.

At a corporate boat party, I approached a circle of guests with a tray of beetroot and goat cheese croustades.

“Scott’s has to be the best restaurant in town,” said a wispy white haired man, as he lobbed one of my canapés into his mouth.

Excited about our mutual taste, I said, “Oh, I love Scott’s too.” The conversation stopped in its tracks, and the man gave me a sympathetic smile as if to say, ‘Probably not the same Scott’s dear.’

I once served at an event in Whitehall, it was a drinks and nibbles event, and I was in charge of the finger sandwich tray. Theresa May was there chatting to her colleagues when I came strutting over. Theresa inspected my tray and took a cucumber sandwich.She looked up and said, “Thank you.”

(That’s right…if the Home Secretary has time for manners, so do you random corporate woman on table 5).

She carried on her conversation and I left her to it…And that’s how I fed Theresa May a finger sandwich.

I never did get the knack of pulling out a cork without the “WAAAYHEEEY!” corkscrew, but I did learn a few things from that B-job. For certain, I would never want to be an events manager, or be friends with one. And that given a choice, Theresa May would pick cucumber over ham as a sandwich filling.

My days of temp staffing are behind me now, but my B-jobs continue, and so do the strange celebrity encounters – like that time I was an Oxford University tour guide and sang a duck song to Justin Rose…but that’s another story.

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