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jearspeentersbest.website
My name's Sophie. I'm 26. I live in Manchester, in Moss Side. Area where you don't wanna be out at night. But I don't have a choice. I rent a room in a house where the walls smell of other people's lives. Five people. Two kids. One dad who shouts at night. I don't know who at. I just shove my head under the pillow. I work at McDonald's. In the Arndale Centre. Dead centre of Manchester. Three floors of a shopping centre where people are shoving each other even at 10am. Weekends? Hell. Our dining area's always packed. Always. Morning till close. Seven tills running flat out. Kitchen can't keep up. Timers beeping. Managers screaming. I work the till. Sometimes on drive-thru. Sometimes on drinks. But mostly on the till. Cos I tap the screen fast and I smile. Even when I don't want to. On weekdays we do hundreds of orders an hour. Friday night – thousands. Saturday – just an endless wall of faces. The queue snakes from the till all the way to the food court exit. People are angry. Hungry. Knackered. They look at you like it's your fault they've been waiting for their Big Mac for four whole minutes. I hate Saturdays. On Saturdays, orders are double. Double. That's not a metaphor. That's reality. At 2pm in the Arndale Centre, you can't breathe. A queue of families with kids, teenagers, tourists, homeless blokes asking to chip in for a cheeseburger. I can't. I just can't. But I have to. By 6pm on Saturday, my back starts hurting. By 8pm, my legs go numb. By 9pm, I can't feel my fingers anymore. But I keep tapping the screen. Fries. Chicken nuggets. McFlurry. Fries. Chicken nuggets. McFlurry. Endless loop. £10.80 an hour. After tax – about £1,300 a month. Minus rent: £500.�Minus council tax and bills: £120.�Minus phone and internet: £50.�Minus bus to the Arndale and back: £80.�Minus food: £200.�Minus medicine: £20.�Minus emergency buffer: £40. Leftover: about £290. That's the theory. In reality – less. Cos something always happens. Always. I count my money every morning.
