Any terrible experience we have in life is fondly billed as ‘resilience-building’.
Getting locked out of your house arms you to face the world’s troubles; missing a train provides you with an opportunity to practise stress management; liking an ex’s four-week-old Instagram lets you preview the sensation of cardiac arrest.
For whatever reason, we like to put a positive-spin on the seemingly valueless.
I will argue the following, however:
The week I spent playing kitchen bitch in one of Sydney’s most punishingly gourmet (read: wanky) deli/butcher/food stores was without any redeeming qualities. Whatsoever.
There were none. Not one.
Here is a pie chart.
I know. I drew it myself. Thank you.
To say I was treated 'like dirt' would be unfair. On me.
We ignore dirt. Dirt harms no one.
I was treated like the wiggly worm inside the dirt - the one everyone is afraid to touch and when you do touch them they die because of the acids in your skin or something.
Then they're inevitably eaten by a bird.
Kate de Brito discusses what to do if you land your dream job and it just doesn't feel right, on Mamamia Out Loud. Post continues after audio.
The kitchen wasn't a regulation one.
It was a gourmet, French-run kitchen within an upmarket chicken shop/butcher/deli/food store. Not a restaurant. Four chefs, but they didn't all work at once.
It made pretty much everything you'd expect from a gourmet deli: gourmet sausages, potted sauces and dips, roast chooks, duck fat potatoes, creme brulée, strawberry tarts, duck liver pâte... with the only catch being it was all for takeaway.