Not anymore. Now I make bad sandwiches for a living. In my defence, I can only work with what I'm given. Still, a job's a job, especially at my age. While I smear the margarine on to sad, white bread slices, I try not to think about the poor souls, I'm almost feeding. Best not to dwell on things like that.
Don't tell a soul this, but there is one thing I do that makes me feel a bit better. Call it the ghost of my old professional pride, but I started smuggling in extras to make the food better. A tiny slither of flavour. I realised early on that they search staff on the way out, but never on the way in. I mean, what's the point?
If I have it spare, I'll share. It has to be small and easy to stash, but I can manage a small jar of chutney, salt, pepper, various salad from my windowsill garden, stuff like that. Then it goes in the sandwiches, in the hope it will improve the meal, make it slightly appetising. Chances are, for most of them, it will be their final morsel. Too bleak to linger there.
I mean, it isn't a crime what I’m doing, is it? No-one is getting hurt. Well, not by me.
Last week one of the metal meal trays came back empty, except for a front tooth swimming in a red sauce of blood. I hope they managed to eat my sandwich first, I'd added some sweet, pickled beetroot and horseradish. Such a waste.
Dorset-based hospital worker. Avid reader and occasional fiction scribbler. Very happy to finally have a piece of his work published.
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