I have a job. Yes. A job at a corner cafe in a hectic shopping outlet. It is often busy, and the loud humming of the coffee machine makes it noisy. The cakes are the first things you see when you walk up to the counter to order, and the crumbs littering your tables are the last things you'll see before leaving. We all dress in black; crisp black shirts, ironed black trousers, and straight black aprons. Class. The work is hard. We are on our feet all day serving coffees, running meals, and wrapping cutlery down the back. The customers are all different and interesting. Some are friendly and babble on, while others don't even say 'thank you' when you place their order before them. By the end of your shift, you're tired, you're feet hurt and there is everything from coffee to tomato sauce squished with cream stained on your apron. Yes, it makes you wish that you were back at home, curled up in your bed without the rush and clamour, but it is work; it challenges me and I love a challenge.