The Lost Boy - Chapter 8 – part one - The Return To Southampton

As always, this seems to be the case — I don’t remember the move. The packing, the travel, the settling back in… all of that is gone.

What I do remember is my mum. That sound. Her crying. I could never forget it. It’s carved into me in a way nothing else is. A mother’s grief doesn’t just fill a room — it takes hold of everyone in it.

I don’t remember long talks or deep conversations. There weren’t many. Maybe a couple of times I tried to encourage her — “come on, Mum, get up, keep yourself busy.” But even then, I don’t think it helped. What words could?

What has stayed with me is the heaviness of the house, the way that sound of her sobbing seemed to soak into the walls. I knew I couldn’t fix it. I knew I couldn’t take her pain away. But I went back because I couldn’t stay away.

I thought maybe just being there might be something.

I was out of work for a while, and with that came the grind of job hunting. At first I put effort into it, but it didn’t take long for it to feel monotonous. Day after day, applying for anything and everything that came up. Half the time I wasn’t even sure what I was applying for — I just wanted something. A reason to get up, a bit of money coming in, a way forward.

I don’t think I ever got a rejection letter, or even an email. Nothing. Just silence. Like throwing applications into a black hole and waiting for an echo that never came.

The job centre became a kind of punishment. Printing off job sheets that came out like receipts from those dreaded machines, scrolling through vacancies that all blurred together. I must have picked up the odd bit of agency work here and there, though maybe I’m merging memories from other times.

What I do remember clearly is one interview.

Domino’s Pizza was opening a new branch in the local town, and I actually got a call to come in. I barely remember the interview itself, but I do remember how I prepared for it. I was always quite good in the lead-up. I’d research the company, learn its history, try to understand how it started — anything that might give me an edge if they asked the right question.

But none of that mattered. The man interviewing me wasn’t some corporate figure from Domino’s, or an area manager with a passion for the brand. He was just a franchisee looking to staff the shop so he could make money. That was it.

Still — it wasn’t flat. Not completely. Because not long after, I got the call.

I’d got the job.

I wasn’t told in the interview itself, but the phone rang a little while later and they said training would be starting soon. After weeks of applying for anything and everything, after all those silent rejections that never even came, just hearing the words “you’ve got the job” felt like a small victory.

It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t a dream. But it was something. And in that moment, something was enough.

Because the shop wasn’t open yet, it wasn’t a straight walk-in-and-start situation. We had to wait while it was being finished, kitted out, made ready. All of us — the ones chosen to fill the different positions — were left in this odd limbo.

When the doors were finally ready to open, we were brought in as a group and trained up together. A brand-new team for a brand-new store.

The training time at Domino’s was actually so much fun. A real mix of personalities thrown together — different ages, different backgrounds — but for the most part, we all got on well. It was a laugh.

What surprised me most was how quickly it turned competitive. Making pizzas wasn’t just about getting it right; it became a race to see who could do it fastest while keeping the quality. We’d be laughing, joking, but also really trying to beat each other. And weirdly, that made it better. It gave us something to care about.

That was one thing the franchise owner got right. Whatever his reasons for running the place, he understood the importance of quality. And that passed on to us. For the most part, everyone took pride in what they were doing. We weren’t just throwing toppings on dough — we were making pizzas that people would actually want to eat.

It wasn’t long before I stepped up into more responsibility. A few of us were chosen to be shift runners — sorting rotas, handling food orders, and running shifts when the manager wasn’t there.

I was actually really proud of myself. It probably only meant an extra ten pence an hour, but it wasn’t about the money. It was the feeling of achieving something. Of being trusted. Of having people look to me to keep things running smoothly.

I know — it was only Domino’s. But at the time, it mattered. I even started to imagine one day running my own store, becoming a store manager. I liked the sound of that. Manager.

The irony wasn’t lost on me, of course. I couldn’t manage my own life very well — not really — but somehow I was managing a pizza shop. And in its own small way, that gave me a sense of pride I hadn’t felt in a long time.

I couldn’t tell you how long I worked there for, but I enjoyed it for the most part. One memory that still makes me laugh is from the store opening. For whatever reason, they decided someone should dress as a gorilla and hand out flyers. Why a gorilla? I have no idea. But I didn’t care. I’ve always liked fancy dress, even now, so I just jumped into the costume for shits and giggles. Sweating buckets, but laughing the whole time.

Another perk I remember well was the free food. And I love pizza — still do. Add in the Domino’s cookies and it was a dangerous combination. One time the walk-in fridge packed up, meaning all the stock couldn’t be kept. I did not complain about being handed a whole box of cookies to take home. In fact, that might have been one of the best nights of the job.

I also managed to train myself to eat a whole large and a whole medium pizza in one sitting. Looking back, I’m not sure if that’s a talent or a warning sign — but at the time, it felt like a fucking achievement.

Above all, during this time — as sad as it might sound — when I was at work, I felt important.

I knew how to do most things in the shop. I could jump in anywhere and keep things running. I learned to do things I never imagined myself doing: putting together rotas, placing food orders, even training new people in some roles.

For a while, that gave me a sense of pride. Like I mattered. Like I was capable.

I’m sure most people probably looked at me and thought I was a bit of a dickhead. And I know some didn’t. But honestly, that didn’t matter. Because for that while, I mattered to myself. I had a sense of pride. I felt capable.

The last job I’d had back in Northampton was good enough, but it didn’t take much hustle. Domino’s was different. This was probably the first job I really applied myself to with the hope of progression. And looking back now, I think that’s where my work ethic — the one I’ve carried with me right up until today, the one that thrives on progression — was first born and really developed.

I don’t think I was sacked from there. I’m pretty sure I left. Why, I can’t exactly remember. Maybe I’d just had enough. Maybe life outside the shop was pulling me in other directions. im pretty sure it was due to moving again! my feet probably got itchy after a while.

Domino’s had given me something when I needed it — a laugh, a bit of pride, a sense of capability, and the beginnings of a work ethic I never knew I had. And then, like so many things in my life, it became another chapter I closed and moved on from.