“Come” says the Chef, for this is Switzerland, the chef Yugoslav and the only other English he knows is “Mister”. Gesture at sink full of crockery and used utensils. “Come Mister” – mop bucket and expanse of floor. “Come Mister” as he disappears out of the back door. And so through the mist of bleary eyes and the misery of queasy guts I follow him at a trot. (Oh why the hell did I drink so much last night? I know the gathering was congenial, the beer free, but why?)
Heading in the direction of the cool room, no real time for such self examination. There lie 20-30 chooks, bare and goose pimply waiting passively for their intestines to be removed. Dry mouth and furry tongue, aching head. Shove bare hand up, grasp the squelchy mess and pull. The ripe atmosphere tickles at my nostrils and the painfully eaten half roll and coffee which constituted breakfast begin to churn. Dry mouth wetted with sticky saliva. Head pounding. Sweating despite the cold. Already messy hand into second fowl, grasp and pull. “Nix langsam, mister” shouts Chef over the sound of the refrigerator. My third bird corresponds to the Chef’s seventh and the nausea is now too strong to deny. Bowel makes its presence known and warns of need for action. Stomach is also making similar demands of breakfast.
I leave at a fast canter, back through the kitchen, up the stairs, through the office to the only toilet which is locked as another member of staff ponders upon the mysteries of the Universe or reads a comic and gently deals with his evacuation in an easy deliberate manner.