It is just turning 9a.m. as I make my way up the steps.  Gently, I push the front door of the building.  Locked.  I sigh, and turn around to head back down the stairs.  I walk around the side of the building to the yard gate.  I lift the latch and give the gate a shove, mentally hoping that whoever went in last remembered to leave the door ajar.

Entering the yard, I immediately glance at the staff entrance as I kick the gate closed.  I breathe a sigh of relief.  The door has been propped open with the handle of the broom that is used to sweep the yard – the handiwork of one of the chefs, no doubt.

I duck inside the half-open door and head down the corridor to the break room.  Passing the manager’s office, I see that it is locked up.  That would explain why the front door is not open – the manager’s obviously haven’t managed to drag themselves out of bed yet.  I carry on to the break room – a tiny, claustrophobic cupboard, with three chairs and a tiny coffee table.  This serves as the room where the staff – up to ten at a time – have to eat their meals.  If someone is smoking in there, it becomes intolerable.  Tossing my jacket and bag into my locker, I drag my uniform out and change into it as fast as I can.

I hate my uniform.  It is a hideous, clashing mix of colours and patterns.  The shirt is scratchy and the trousers never sit right.  The only good thing about it is that I get to wear trainers – paid for by me, of course.  The company would never think to provide footwear for its staff.  I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the closed door and shudder.  I look like a clown.  I hate clowns.  Shoving my clothes into the locker, I turn the key and quickly head back out into the corridor.  I take hold of the handle of the door that leads into the main building.  Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for the day ahead, and open the door.

The restaurant is in darkness still.  It looks like none of the front-of-house staff are in yet.  Good.  I like it like this.  Quiet, still, peaceful.  No chattering staff.  No bickering parents.  No fractious, noisy and rowdy children running around all over the place.  Opening the door to the play area, I am hit by a blast of icy air.  I shiver involuntarily and quickly turn on the heat.  The fans whirr into action as I busy myself turning on lights and putting a CD into one of the games machines at the far end of the enormous room.

I find myself humming as I set up for the day.  I start with the toddler area – video on, ball pit tidy, various toys in their boxes ready to be picked up and quickly demolished by the first children who enter this space.  I make sure the gate is pulled closed – hopefully it will encourage parents to do the same.  Most of my days are spent fishing tots out of the older children’s area while the parents sit and have a chat, oblivious to what their offspring are doing.

Moving on to the rest of the room I set up face paints, circus activities and colouring stations.  I enjoy the face painting – it is an oasis of calm among the frenzied activity going on all around.  The child in front of you has to stay still and calm, and it is a wonderful opportunity to unwind for a few minutes, before the reality of the play area inevitably invades once more.

I grab the box of modelling balloons out of the small cupboard underneath the internal telephone.  It is at this point that management usually call down to make sure everything is all right.  I think that they are actually making sure the play staff are at work on time, although they would never admit that.  Eyeing the telephone warily, I carry on with my task.  I do not mind the balloon modelling.  It can get hectic though.  Once you start, you end up surrounded by a sea of children clamouring for flowers, dogs, bears.  There is no escape until they have to leave for dinner, or it is time for them to go home.  They always compare me with those clowns at birthday parties who make the balloon animals.  I hate clowns.

I check that the play equipment is in order – as far as I can behind the netting.  Some of my colleagues take this opportunity to enter the area and climb the ladders, slide down the slides and play in the ball pits.  I do not do this.  I can see perfectly well from this side of the barrier.  Everything looks fine.  I can always tell who worked the night before by the state of the room in the morning.  Today, thankfully, all is well.  I retreat to the store cupboard at the back of the room and begin to inflate the first lot of helium balloons.  These will be taken to the front of the restaurant for the children as they arrive.

Finally, I am done.  I check the diary to see whether I need to set up for any parties today.  There are none.  I cannot help but be relieved.  Although I have run a two-hour party for twenty children on my own before, it is not an experience I would willingly repeat.  We rarely have enough staff to cover all areas – the management seem to forget about us stuck at the back of the building – but today, at least, we should be ok.  Now all I have to do is sit and wait for the arrival of the screaming hordes.  The children all seem to think I am a clown.  I hate clowns.

Written for the {W}rite of Passage Writing Well Challenge #5:  The Job