It happens every day on the 2nd floor around 11am…
The cry rings out like a bell, rolling far and wide over pastures of desks and computers.
Trundle trundle trundle…. trrrrrrrrrolllllllllleeeeeeeey service!
Basically the Ali Hakim of the food industry, when the trolley rolls into town/the office, folks flock from far and wide to pore over its bounteous offerings. When I say ‘flock’ I mean actually running to catch up with the extremely slow moving and cumbersome cart being pushed by some poor piteous soul from the cafe downstairs.
‘Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaait!!!! WHAT CRISPS DO YOU HAVE TODAY??? I WANT CHEESE AND ONION!!!!!!!’
The poor piteous Trolley Girl’s journey begins down in the cafe where she is loaded up with prepackaged sandwiches, sausage rolls, crisps, and warm Cokes. One time my friend walked by as this process was underway, and he overheard Trolley Girl say, ‘I just can’t face the trolley!! Please don’t make me go up there today!’
I mean, of COURSE she hates working the trolley… it is a terrible, terrible job.
Once she’s all loaded up, she has to maneuver this giant unwieldy object into the lift and then through several doorways on each floor of the building. So she’s constantly just banging into walls and doors in an extravagant production of ridiculousness so that she can then peddle her wares to the rude, unappreciative masses.
The trolley looks like it weighs about a billion lbs, and her body is practically horizontal as she pushes it along–occasionally stopping to proclaim ‘Trolley Service!!!!’ like a fucking town crier. And ringing a little bell!
Then endures shit like this [actual conversation I have witnessed between Trolley Girl and a customer]:
TG: That will be 80p, please.
Jerk: 80p?!?! Crisps are normally 40p!!!!
TG: Well, these are the posher crisps which cost 80p. I’m sorry, we don’t have any of the Walkers today.
Jerk: Well I’m certainly not paying 80p for crisps!!!!! Outrage! [throws the crisps back on the trolley]
TG’s face: [Like I care whether or not you buy the stupid crisps.]
This conversation probably happens over and over again on each floor as she slowly makes her way through the 9 circles of hell.
When I look into Trolley Girl’s eyes, all my years and years of waitressing come flooding back to me. The endless hauling of ice buckets and barrels filled with tortilla chips. The exhausting and grueling sidework. And all the delightful customers I met along the way who were so grateful for my services and who helpfully considered their meal a matter of life and death.
Dismay at the prices you didn’t set and the food you did not prepare–the unwilling middleman of manual labour in a sea of dissatisfaction–I see you, Trolley Girl. And I feel your pain.
More often used in astronomical terms, I think this Weekes Word can also be applied to the banalities of our lives down here on earth.
Diurnal: from the Latin diurnus, later diurnal in Middle English and meaning daily or of/during the day. Ex: Trolley Girl finally shirked her diurnal obligation to feed the masses of the Poowich Council, running screaming into the sunset.
xWG // #dazeandweekes