I Make That Pimms O'Clock

I spent the last two days working at Henley Regatta. Behind the Pimms bar. In the Regatta Enclosure. Through rain and shine. And rain and shine it sure did, so that the uniform I shivered in during the morning (to the point that I managed to convince myself – over an extra hot, rather wet, mostly soya, Starbucks hot chocolate – that warming myself with a new Joules hoody - conveniently located opposite Starbucks – was completely justified and did not make me high maintenance. Of course, that I now own a Joules hoody and neither play, nor really understand polo beyond Jilly’s Cooper, is not justifiable at all) I stripped off later in the Mahiki enclosure much to the amusement of the rod stewarts who had asked me earlier in the day whether or not the “boat thing” was “over yet”. Yes, really.

But let’s go back a bit (1), to the morning I stumbled out of work, having competed with Amy to sell the most shots at Maidenhead’s own Coyote -very- Ugly. This is before I learnt about the effects of having a Henley STAFF pass and the sneaky under-the-counter services run by a hoard of waitresses. It hadn't been an unpleasant evening (if you don't count having two shots nicked and £15 disappear without explanation unpleasant): I, once again disobeyed my mother's one house rule (do not go out in just a bikini...); saw everyone I've ever met in Maidenhead and managed to actually tie with Amy (each selling exactly 312 shots, using absolutely no uncatholic methods...) who has acquired the club's capacity in extremely loyal best friends. Of course, the evening probably began to slide backwards when a man offered to buy fifteen shots from me - on the agreement that I would drink eleven of them... For a five-feet-nothing girl, wearing far too much make-up and really very little else, there's not much she can say... So, not only, might we note, have I learnt that I have not yet learnt my limits, but I also defy anyone to claim there is no alcohol in our yummy little shots!

Fastforward 48 hours, minus £17, add a few shots backfiring in our upstairs loo, several rows with one's mother and a lift - the long way - from a james, we're back to Henley with a copy of Lolita and little - to no- organisation behind the safety of our loveable Pimms bar. Only I wasn't behind the bar: I was on table service, so that I later met a group who simply had to put an end to an 'ongoing argument', whether or not I had earlier been wearing a 'nude thong'. Thank you, regulatory flesh-coloured tights! Needless to say, I rebelled the second day and 'forgot' my tights at home (read: ripped them off at the first chance and LEFT THEM TO ROT).

While years of attending Henley as one of the 'Saturday lot' (i.e. one of the all-knowing, socialising, chain-smoking, under-age yaaaaaahs), well before I knew what rowing was, was perfectly pleasant, working at Henley was another experience entirely. For someone as disorganised as I am, I am rarely shocked by disorganisation, however, the manager in charge of the bar I worked with, had about as much knowledge of managing a bar as half a wet dog, and after a freezing morning, eyeing up a stack of bacon sandwiches, only to catch wind of the fact they'd been thrown away, I almost broke down. The very worst part of my brief attendance this year, however, was great rescue I managed. Calling Harriet Green, only have a male voice answer, panic alarms went off in little me, but I efficiently (not so calm) engineered said male into meeting me about a mile down the river from where I was. Running all the way, on the phone to him, making sure he would definitely be there, I was finally found (having described myself as 'too small to see but wearing a pillow case'), by a boy who, saying 'I think you'd better come with me, I obligingly followed (is this worrying at all?). This was only to discover that he was Catherine's boyfriend's brother and, in fact, walked me over to Harriet, who I had just gallantly sprinted down the river for. All in all, the event was truly heartbreaking. No jokes please about how easily my heart breaks.

And then I heard something quite funny - and was a bit pissed off I hadn't thought of it first - that waitresses were selling cigarettes on the sly(2). And at around £20 a pack! (I'm no mathematician, but even I can tell you that's an incredible profit for no practically no effort - the mind even boggles to think if they originated from a Duty Free). While I did almost sob by the third time I'd been asked if I had 'any cigs going...', I can't complain, because (for anyone who doesn't know, the Regatta Enclosure is not the laaaavely enclosure, it's the mediocre one - hence the fact we had bacon sandwiches on offer) I was actually tipped £4 for bringing someone a glass with ice! This is the kind of tip one wants to bat away muttering something like "no, don't be silly: it was no trouble!", but then one remembers one woke up at 7am and has been drenched in lemonade since 9am, so one dismisses one's argument, smiles sweetly and then retreats bashfully.

Reading Lolita - Nabokov
Listening to PODCASTS ON VIIGO

(1) Ignoring the fact that I begin most of my sentences with all sorts of things I promised not to at prep school...
(2) note: I am not outing anyone here...