One Star Review

Photograph: Trends. Belgique

“We don’t care about that, Nick. I’m sorry, but last time was the final warning.”

“We? Who’s “we”?  You mean “you”, don’t you Debs. It’s your decision, your choice. You know I always make up the time, work lunch break. Customers like me.  What’s the problem?”

Debs sighed, looked uncomfortable.

“We just can’t keep letting you get in late all the time, Nick. Whatever the reason.”

I thought about it, all the times it hadn’t mattered that I was a bit late. Everyone was at the mercy of the bus and the metro out here; it must be something else.  Then I remembered Henderson, the franchisee and his cheapskate work party. And me and too many shots.

“Was it the Christmas lunch thing? Was it that?”  Debs looked even more uncomfortable.

“It’s that isn’t it.”  Debs looked away and shifted on her feet. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Looking up to the exposed pipework of the ceiling, dusty spider webs hung down, the aircon wafting them gently in the direction of the door.

“That’s what you were talking about the other day when he came in, isn’t it. He told you to sack me, first chance you got, and this is it isn’t it.”

“Look. Nick…” she shrugged, handed me the brown envelope. “I really like you, but, as manager here, I can’t keep ignoring your timekeeping. It’s easily once a week. Twice this week.  Don’t take it out on me; I’ve let you off loads of times. You’ll get a job somewhere else easy. You’re too smart for sandwich prep anyway, you can do better than…than… this.” She looked around at the garish green and yellow striped walls and the bulbous corporate graffito on the walls. “Fresha!” it said. Which was mostly a lie.

I gave up. “Can I get my staff lunch at least?” I said with a smile, giving her an easy win and taking my p45. They used to have cash in them, these envelopes. She nodded. Grateful.

I sat outside eating my sandwich at one of the wood effect resin tables, thinking about things. I would have cleaned the pigeon shit off it, If I hadn’t just been sacked. I was stewing. Henderson, with his wanky Audi. Such a dickhead. Barely able to string a sentence together, let alone argue a point. These people can vote. These people get to run franchises and people like me, who can make them look like the clueless twats that they are, even after a dozen shots?  We get to work in their shit sandwich shops for minimum rate on zero hours contracts. Something is going wrong with the world.

A hopeful pigeon strutted around my table, beady eye on the prize. I tore off a corner of my green olive “Foccatcha!”  and flicked it over. It barely hit the ground before the pigeon had it and with a slapping of wings, two more dropped in. I flicked over another bit of bread for both newcomers. More arrived. Soon I had a captive audience, and they were scrapping, in turns flying up into the air then dropping down to get a better angle on the crumbs. It was mesmerising. I was the pigeon master.

“Do you mind?” said some hassled suited bloke waving off the birds as he approached the door. Then a shit hit him on his navy-blue chalk-striped shoulder. It was beautiful timing.  I laughed, couldn’t help it.  “They say its good luck, getting shit on by a bird,” I said “but the birds will tell you it takes years of practice.”

The man looked at me, so enraged he didn’t know what to say for a few seconds. “I’m going to send you the dry-cleaning bill, and I’m never coming here again.” He stormed off to Greggs or somewhere.  I realised I was still wearing my branded  “Fresha!” cap – hadn’t left it in my locker with the rest of my gear, which I had actually paid for, now I think about it.

Debs came out to see what was going on, flapping away the pigeons. I kept throwing crumbs down at her feet and more pigeons arrived.  “Grow up and fuck off, will you. And give us that hat.”

It’s mine. I paid for it,” I said, petulantly. 

I stood up and scattered the rest of my sandwich in the doorway at her feet. A legion of pigeons descended. The call must have gone out. “Jesus Christ, Nick!” Debs shouted from the middle of the flock, trying to shoe them away, in vain. She looked surreal, almost strobing in and out of view in the whirlwind of excited birds. Some of them flapped into the shop as they tried to dodge her flailing arms. They descended on the salad bar; the croutons didn’t stand a chance.  Lindsay was inside, she started shrieking. She hates anything that flaps round her head. Moths. Anything. It was glorious chaos. I took a photo.

When I got home, I went online and left a review: “One Star - Not enough pigeons.” And posted my photo. 

Fresha social media replied. It was probably Debs. “The person that left this review is a former employee who maliciously attracted pigeons into our shop on market street. We would like to apologise for any inconvenience to our wonderful customers while we cleaned the shop.”

I had another idea.

After week of it, they called the police.  “It’s a free country,” I said, dropping the whole sack of grain at the door and retreating to a safe distance.

Disclaimer - Fresha! is a fictional sandwich franchise and entirely made up and in no way connected to any person or corporate entity called Fresha.

© Nick Winney 2025