Not much of a job, but until recently the tips were good.
Nowadays the rush starts at midnight with punters flocking into the Blue Angel as usual, but the dawn exodus, the money-making hours, well that’s not what it was.
She wishes she could go home, but from the look of the cloakroom pegs there’s still at least a score of people still inside. Just like last night.
She peers into the darkened interior of the club.
Sylvie shrugs and leaves.
Not the sharpest tool in the box, but sharp enough to survive.
For the time being, anyway.
Up at the crack of dawn this morning (well 6.00am) to take advantage of our new freedom to venture out by car and take an early morning walk along the cliff-tops. Yay! Thanks to Rochelle for hosting the weekly Friday Fictioneers.