Misplaced Management

It’s a busy pub. There’s a wait of three deep at the bar and everyone is shouting their order across the counter to a young skinny blond girl. To the rear is a huge stack of glasses waiting to be washed, while on the other side people are hammering on the swing door to the kitchen demanding attention.

‘Captain? Captain? I could do with a hand. We’re really busy.’

‘Busy?! BUSY?! Were the frogs yelling and screaming at me with pieces of paper demanding plates of snails and chardonnay? No. They were firing bullets left right and centre with cutlasses swishing and swooshing demanding my blood, and did I get a hand? No. I was ducking and diving for cover, dodging every bullet, parrying off every thrust that came my way, and I still live to tell the tale. So if you can’t fence off a couple of punters craving a pint, then get out of the kitchen.’