‘So there you are, Katie Kelly! Up to your bloody cheffy shenanigans again.’ My boss, Bernie, slams down her clipboard on the stainless-steel countertop and points at the door. ‘Into my office, NOW.’

I go to open my mouth. A reasonable ‘What have I done?’ stuck in my throat, hovering over my tongue. But Mel and Zoe furrow their eyebrows at me, simultaneously, raising blue, plastic-gloved fingers to their lips. It’s our code for keep your mouth shut and keep your job. This one little gesture of solidarity means we know batshit Bernie is no mere catering supervisor: no, she’s a complete despotic maniac. So best just agree with whatever she says and remember, it’s only a job, it’s not worth losing my cool. Or my weekly salary. Or my self- respect just because the boss hates my guts.

I get it.

They’re right.

I shut my mouth and loop my hairnet over both ears. Like it’s a hard hat with the power to protect me from the verbal ambush that no doubt awaits me on the other side of Bernie’s office door.

Mel starts to hum a tune. Cheery and upbeat and completely escapist, an effort to boost me up mentally, help me to remember the bigger picture.

The small picture being that I’m a hen-pecked catering assistant pulping beige mush in a retirement home eight hours a day.

I hum too, summoning perspective, trying to zoom out of this career-low scene, which is way too close-up for my liking

Zoe must be able to read my thoughts because she calls out after me,

‘Be the bigger person, Katie. Remember what we talked about… rise above it.

I turn back to give her a weak smile and nod. This job is low but it’s not rock bottom. Since my restaurant folded, it is pretty much the only thing between me and rock bottom. And like my friends keep telling me, it’s just for a little while. It’s just until I get back on my feet, just until something else comes along. I’ll suck it up because there isn’t any other option out there for me right now. I had my chance at being my own boss and I ballsed it up.

So here I am. Here I am at Parklands Senior Residence. Chief potato peeler. Executive pot wash. Master blender of incongruous gloop into less lumpy incongruous gloop. But the silver lining is that it’s full-time, five days a week, it pays okay, it’s walking distance from the flat and it’s what I’m qualified to do.

Overqualified to do… but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. Like Bernie told me in my interview, a cook is a cook is a cook. Throw the food in the pot, serve it out on time and under budget, end of story.

So I take a deep breath and follow Bernie from the kitchen prep area to her office, biting the inside of my mouth with every step. Once I’m in, she slams the door behind me.

‘Are you actually trying to kill our residents?’ she screams at me.

I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about.

Bernie takes an oversized ziplock plastic bag out of her pocket and throws it on the table between us.

‘Contraband substances is what I’m talking about!’ She points to the small pouches of dried herbs. ‘Parsley, eh? Oregano? Rosemary. Thyme. Nothing gets past me, let me tell you. I found these stashed behind the cans of soup. I’ve had my suspicions about you right from the get-go, Katie, and looks like I’ve been right all along.’ She folds her arms and curls her whiskery top lip at me. ‘So come on, let’s hear it, Katie. I can hardly wait to see you try and worm your way out of this one.’ She leans back on her table, smiling smugly.

‘Fine. They’re mine. I brought them in and put in a sprinkle to flavour the soup, so it would have, you know… some flavour.’

Bernie pushes her tongue hard into her cheek and snatches back the ziplock bag, unsealing it and sniffing the leaf like a customs officer. ‘How many times, Katie? That’s not how we do things around here. Herbs and spices and other fancy-pants stuff are not included on the recipe cards. And your job is to follow the recipe cards TO THE LETTER. Which you are clearly still not doing. And you’re spending far too long on service chatting to the residents. Your role is to cook and serve the food the way we like it – that’s it – not involve yourself in rambling conversations about the minutiae of their days. Which brings me to my second point, what about Mrs Rosenblatt’s pudding?’

‘I can explain that.’

Bernie pushes away from her desk and claps her hands together. ‘I knew it! I knew it would be down to you, Katie, you and your so-called haute cuisine! Do you know what you did to her? She was on the toilet for three hours this morning. Three hours! The nurse thought she might have a gastric bug and wanted her hospitalised. But the old girl refused, said it was your pudding that caused it.’

‘Excellent!’ A smile breaks my lips. ‘Mrs Rosenblatt told me she was constipated, she asked for my help. I knew a little prune and spiced pear crumble would get things going.’

Bernie makes a tight fist. ‘You can’t keep doing this. Breaking the rules, switching up the menus, creating your own meals for residents… it is not the way we do things around here.’

‘So you just want me to clock in, throw the food in the pot and leave my brain and my heart at home.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Sorry, Bernie, not going to happen.’

She is kind of quaking right now. And growling. And turning a funny colour. I’d call it mottled meatball.

She leans towards me, jabbing her finger into the air in front of my face. ‘I am so sick of you. I’ve told the Catering Manager straight that I’m not happy with you on my team. I told him everything – the constant changes you make, the way you don’t listen to me, the way you backchat, the time you waste jabbering on to the residents during service. He agreed that as soon as anyone even half-qualified walks through those doors, you are gone from here. You don’t fit in, you won’t fit in, and I, for one, can never see a day that you will fit in. The only reason you are still tolerated around here is because we’re so stuck.’ Bernie clenches her jaw and narrows her angry eyes to slits.

I know she’s saying this to try and hurt me, or frighten me, or bully me into doing things her way. But, actually, I echo everything she’s said. I don’t ever want to fit in here. And the only reason I’m here is because I’m stuck too.

I close my eyes and I think of my mother. I picture her in a supermarket car park years ago. Some crazed driver approached her and started yelling. The whole time she just smiled. When it all blew over, I asked her why she did that. Shouldn’t she have yelled back? Shouldn’t she have stood up for herself, scared him off? She said no. Sometimes it’s best to smile at those who want to overpower you. It confuses the hell out of them.

So I open my eyes and give Bernie the biggest, brightest smile I can muster.

And I feel like my mum would be proud of me. And for that I smile even more.

Bernie shakes her head and sucks her teeth at me. ‘Get out and take that great big stupid grin of yours with you.’

She throws open the door and I am free to leave.

‘Bring Mrs Rosenblatt a soft cheese sandwich up to her room – a plain soft cheese sandwich – would you? It’s the least you can do after all the upset you caused her.’

I give Bernie a thumbs up as I walk out her office door.

But there’s no way I’m bringing Mrs Rosenblatt a plain soft cheese sandwich.

Because I like her way too much for that.