Bridge Street.

My 2nd Home.

George chucks the empty packaging into one of four grey plastic bins. There is a six-burner stove to the right side of the fryers that belongs to the pasta section.

A massive stockpot of water is in the right-hand corner on top of the lit burner, which is starting to boil. There is eight metal pasta pots hanging on the edge of the canopy. Against the wall beside the stove is the same type of fridge as the pizza section and grill section has the same type of fridge. In the corner is the kitchen porter section, the big dishwasher is currently filling up, and a doorway beside which leads to two chest freezers and a tall silver fridge, that is the desserts section, which the KP does; he also gets paid in peanuts.

Now I have shown you around my second home, but just for your information, there are no windows or doors that lead outside. This kitchen has two entrances; one that anyone that works in this place comes in, which is a swinging white door; the other one is beside the walk-in fridge, which leads to the customer toilet, also the drink stock room. I can tell you it gets hotter than Satan's nut-sack mate in the summer, especially on the grill section, sandwiched between the two boiling sections for a thirteen-hour shift; you're having Satan's nut-sack, fucking hell, George starts to switch on the grill to carry on setting up for the day, now Fridays are funny days because it can be busy during the day to evening or dead during the day then at 6 or 7, it fucking explodes into life.

Some Jamaican dancehall music is playing from a speaker situated on top of the chest freezer.

George nods to the tune while slicing cherry tomatoes in halves on a green board with a green-handled knife, putting them in a tub to share over all three sections. The head chef is walking with a tray of defrosted pizza dough, putting them on a shelf underneath the marble, after he sieves 'Double O' flour with semolina onto the marble into a mountain.

George finishes cutting the last cherry tomato, he picks up the 4-litre container containing the cherry tomato halves, packed to the brim, and he shares them around all three sections.

The kitchen porter walks into the kitchen in a black chef's uniform to keep the kitchen clean and fill the dessert section.

George poured the remaining cherry tomato halves into the metal container on the pizza section; he cleans to dry his green knife and board after putting the dirty plastic container upside down into the grey dishwasher tray.

George puts the clean green board back onto the damp thin blue sponges that will keep the chopping board from sliding all over the place; he grabs the two washed cucumbers, top 'n' tails them, slicing through the middle, then through the middle again but width way, holding a teaspoon, he scrapes the insides of the cucumbers into a small metal bowl, putting that to one side; afterwards, he grabs his knife, tapping it on the board then speedily slicing the hollowed out cucumbers, not even looking as George cuts the eight halves because he is talking to the Andrej about football.

The head chef is making them some breakfast which is pizza dough cooked into a kind of loaf, cheese on top mixed with black pepper, sliced in half once cooked, after sliced into four quarters, some rocket with salami along with a chopped up buffalo tomato slice in the middle, trust me you have to try this mate if I had the money I would have a stool in town, selling these bad boys. George puts the evenly sliced cucumbers into a plastic container with a blue food bag, putting the lid on after he takes the pen from behind his ear, writes a date label, and peeling to get to the sticky side after he puts it on the container then he puts it in his fridge. George busts a little dance move to the musical beat while walking over to the pasta section, three big saucepans of boiling water on the stovetop, salt trickling from his fingertips into the saucepans boiling water below; he does this a couple of times, after pouring penne from its industrial five-kilo packaging, stirring.