Not-so-secret diary of Alison Hughes, aged 12

As I stand on the threshold of my formative years, my loving parents decide that I am tall enough, confident enough and cheap enough to be initiated into the bizarre rites of the catering trade.

With the restaurant full to overflowing with bargain hunters dining on the ever-popular Times £5 scheme, the Great One, in his wisdom, has seen fit to banish my usual cartoon time, take me to work, throw me to the wolves and grant me a cushy shift of nine till three every Saturday.

I now have the Childline number handily placed, but cannot decide whether to report him, the rest of the staff, or the baying customers for their cruelty.

Monosyllabic

He thinks that I will be more understanding of his comatose state every Sunday but, instead of understanding, have decided to join him in his monosyllabic mode of weekend conversation.

There are certain things about this restaurant trade that I just cannot fathom.

It is demanded that I am polite and courteous at all times, and treat the paying customers with respect and reverence, even when they are rude, or more usually ignore me all together.

I am banished to my bedroom if I utter the "B"-word, but listen open-mouthed as my respectful father goes apocalyptic and manages to go through the entire alphabet as the tickets pile in two and three at a time in the kitchen.

I am surrounded by Coca-Cola, chocolate and ice-cream, but somehow I don't get time to eat any of them.

I have had an in-depth explanation about the tops and bottoms of an obviously round plate, and thought the kitchen was on fire when all that was required was a leaf garnish "on top", not on the side.

Freebies

I have turned my vegetarian nose to the sky when forced to skin a bag of "lovely freebie" pigeons.

Worst of all, I have been forced to serve my head of house, maths teacher and slave-driving games mistress, all on the same table.

The thing I really can't understand is: my rate of pay is half that of everybody else!

No thanks

I am quickly becoming adept at taking instructions from Dad in the kitchen, from my fellow waiting staff, from the hunk who washes up, and from the table who wants jug after jug of tap water, all barking at me at the same time, with no "please" or "thank you".

The strangest thing of all, however, is the reward I will get for doing "a grand job" - a full week's work in the half-term!

Next diary from Alison Hughes - or her dad: 12 March