The Lost Boy - Chapter 9 – part two - Somewhere Between Service and Self

Having lived here, in Bournemouth for a little while — and when I say “a little while,” I couldn’t tell you whether it was a few weeks or a few months — but if I had to guess, I’d lean more towards weeks.

Somewhere in that time, I managed to get a job interview.

I’m not 100% sure how it came about, but I think one of the lads we were living with worked there and told me about an opening, maybe even helped get me in the door. However it happened, I ended up with an interview at Pizza Express for a kitchen porter position — basically washing dishes.

But I didn’t care what the job title was. I didn’t care that it meant standing at a sink all night, scrubbing pans. It was a job, and it was being handed to me. That was an opportunity I wasn’t about to pass up on.

And I never saw it as just a KP job either. For me, it was a way in — a chance to get my foot through a door. I knew my own potential, even if the rest of the world didn’t. I knew that once I got into a place, I could prove myself and climb up. I’d done it before, and I was confident I could do it again. More than confident.

The restaurant was about five or six miles away, and for reasons that escape me now, I decided to walk there for the interview. Maybe I didn’t realise quite how far it was. Maybe I was just broke. Or maybe, back then, walking felt like the only option — a small price to pay for a fresh chance.

I do remember turning up a little late and a little sweaty — not exactly interview-ready. My shirt sticking to me, heart pounding, wishing I’d left an hour earlier.

But sometimes life has a funny way of working itself out.

The manageress found it hilarious. Instead of being annoyed, she was amused — laughing at the situation, at my story of walking all that way, and probably at the sight of me dripping with effort. I remember her saying something about how that kind of commitment was rare.

In the end, my embarrassing entrance actually worked in my favour. The whole thing turned into laughter, easy conversation, and a good first impression for all the wrong reasons.

Safe to say — I got the job.

I loved that place.

The restaurant itself was this beautiful old building — small and compact inside, the kind of space where you could feel the history in the walls. There was a tiny patio out back that doubled as the garden seating area — squeezed in, barely enough space to move, but full of character.

The team were good from what I remember. I can still picture one chef — a Brazilian guy — but most of the other faces blur together now. Waiters, waitresses, a mix of personalities. Some might have been from the next restaurant I worked at — it’s hard to say where one memory ends and the next begins. But I do know that around this time, I built some genuine friendships. The kind that made the grind easier.

From day one, I fit right in.

I worked hard. Fast. Efficient. Even though it was “just” kitchen porter work, I took pride in doing it properly. If I was going to scrub pans, they were going to shine. If I was cleaning, it was going to be spotless. I wanted to be seen — not just as the KP, but as someone who showed up.

And that effort didn’t go unnoticed.

Over time, I found myself working my way through almost every role in that place. Slowly, steadily, I was climbing the ladder. It wasn’t about the title — it was about the feeling. The belonging. The sense of moving forward.

I’ve realised now that for me, that feeling of belonging has always come from progress. From knowing I’m doing well — not just because someone else says so, but because I feel it. That mix of pride and excitement was addictive.

Eventually, I made my way into the kitchen as a trainee pizzaiolo — a pizza chef.

And I loved it.

It helped that I had a bit of experience from Domino’s, I guess, but this was a different kind of setup. We didn’t make dough from scratch — the dough balls came in frozen, and we proved them in-house. Even so, it felt real. The pace, the precision, the heat — it was restaurant work, and I took it seriously.

I think I was good at it. Maybe not as good as I thought I was, but still good. I rarely made mistakes. I loved the hustle, the rhythm of a busy service, the noise and chaos that somehow felt like order once you found your flow.

The Brazilian guy — the main chef — was the one who trained me. His English was next to none, but somehow we made it work. We found ways to communicate. A nod here, a gesture there. He didn’t need words to show me how to keep up.

I watched him carefully — how he managed the rush, how he stayed calm even when the tickets kept flying in faster than we could plate up. I started to mirror that. Before long, I could run the shift the same way.

And because Pizza Express kitchens are open, you can see everything. The customers can hear the noise, the orders being shouted, the laughter, the tension. There’s no hiding — every movement, every slip-up, it’s all on display.

In this restaurant, it was even more intimate. The space was so small you could feel the customers right there beside you. Their eyes on you as you worked. It added pressure — but it also added pride.

I held it together. I worked hard. I cared.

For the first time in a while, I wasn’t drifting — I was becoming.

From trainee pizzaiolo to full pizzaiolo — I’d done it. I’d made it to the line properly, not just watching, not just helping, but running the oven, managing the flow, owning the space.

Then came another opportunity — one I hadn’t expected but definitely wanted.

Front of house.

Now this was something that really caught my attention. The money was so much better. Sure, the kitchen paid a higher hourly rate, but the tips out front were where the real magic was — and back then, if you were good at your job, tips could be something else entirely.

So when the chance came up to step out from behind the oven and onto the floor, I leapt at it.

Just like with every role before, I embraced it. I went in head first — eager, nervous, buzzing with that feeling of this could be something.

Now a waiter — and loving the benefits.

This one was trickier though. Face to face with the dreaded customer! lol

To be fair, most of them were amazing. And I learnt pretty quickly that even when things went wrong — when food took too long or tables got missed — communication was everything. As long as people knew what was happening early on, they were usually okay. And there wasn’t much a free drink or dessert couldn’t fix.

I loved this role too, but honestly? It was mostly for the money.

A single shift could see you walk home with more in tips than you earned in wages — cash in your pocket, straight away. I’d never known anything like it. And on a double shift over a busy weekend, you could double your week’s pay in a couple of days.

Of course, it wasn’t easy. When things got busy, the hustle was real. You’d be darting around the restaurant, weaving between tables, taking orders, running food, making drinks — at Pizza Express, the waiters made the desserts too.

When it kicked off, it was go, go, go — constant motion, heat, voices, clatter, laughter, music, and that steady hum of life that fills a restaurant when it’s at full tilt.

And I thrived in it.

There was something about that controlled chaos that made me come alive. I liked being in the middle of it — juggling plates, timing, people. It made me feel capable, like I was building something again, piece by piece.

For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t running from anything. I was working towards something.

From waiter to manager on duty — a shift runner, essentially.

Somewhere along the way, something had shifted in my head. The focus stopped being just about the money and started being about progression. About growing.

As manager on duty, it wasn’t standard practice to have your own section of tables, which meant no tips — at least, not usually. But because the labour budgets were always tight, I’d still end up running a section now and then, so I didn’t lose my tips completely.

I was in this funny in-between space — some manager-on-duty shifts, some waiting shifts, and occasionally jumping back into the kitchen when things got hectic. The truth was, if I was needed anywhere, that’s where I’d go. That’s what the role was about.

It came with more responsibility too — stock checks, organising promotions, cashing up the waiters at the end of the night, locking up, making sure everything was set and ready for the next day’s service.

And I thrived. I thrived on the progression and the responsibility.

It wasn’t just about proving myself anymore — it was about feeling capable. I liked being trusted, being relied on. After so many years of drifting and doubting myself, I was finally holding something that felt solid.

Somewhere around this time, I started splitting my work between two restaurants — the one in Poole, where I began, and another in Westbourne, Bournemouth.

Westbourne had a totally different energy. It was newer, more modern, and busier — properly busy. It had that buzz that never really stopped. But beyond that, it was much the same kind of work. Just more of it.

I bounced between the two for a while, learning different ways of running shifts, different styles of management, and building up more experience.

Then something shifted again.

The Westbourne restaurant had an opening for an assistant manager. The manager there — she’d trained up the manager in Poole, and I think she’d already had her eyes on me as a potential assistant for herself.

She told me to go for it.

And I did.

And I got it.

When I heard I’d got the job, I felt like I’d finally made something of myself. It might sound small to someone else, but to me it was huge.

To have come from where I came from — the chaos, the instability, the feeling that I’d never amount to anything — to now be standing there as an assistant manager of a restaurant… it was everything.

I was proud. Properly proud.

For the first time in my life, I wasn’t just surviving. I was becoming somebody.

The process for this one wasn’t simple.

It wasn’t a sit-down chat with the manager, shake hands, and bam — you’ve got the job. This time there was a proper process.

I don’t remember all the details, but I know it wasn’t straightforward. There were trips to London for assessments, group tasks with people from all over the country, and a proper recruitment setup.

It was intimidating — but I handled it. I showed up, I gave it my all, and somehow, I came out the other side with the role.

And after that, came the training. Management training.

It felt like the next level — like I’d unlocked something new.

When the official confirmation came through, I was happy. Genuinely happy. For a moment, it felt like the years of grinding, struggling, and trying to prove myself had led somewhere. It wasn’t just luck anymore; it was me doing it.

But of course, not everything was as clean as it looked on the surface.

Work was good — brilliant, even. I was driven, respected, and doing well. But what came with that success was a social life that revolved almost entirely around drinking.

At first, it was harmless. Just gatherings at the local pubs or drinks at someone’s house after a shift. Standard social stuff.

Then, it crept in more. A drink at the end of a couple of shifts a week while closing. Then a few drinks whilst closing — music up, lights dimmed, a quick pint while cashing up.

And before I realised it, I was stopping at the late-night off-licence on the way home to grab a few more.

I wouldn’t have called myself an alcoholic — not then. I didn’t see it as a problem at all. I just enjoyed a drink. It was part of the culture. Part of the job.

But looking back now, it was a problem.

I was drinking a lot, and smoking weed regularly enough too. It became a pattern — one that slipped in so quietly I didn’t even notice it happening.

It never affected my work. That was the story I told myself anyway — and to be fair, my performance didn’t dip. Work came first, always. I didn’t wake up and drink. I wasn’t turning up drunk. It was always after.

That’s what made it so easy to justify.

And the thing is, in that industry — hospitality, catering, restaurants — it’s common. It’s intense work. High energy, long hours, constant movement. You’re switched on from start to finish.

So at the end of it, a drink feels deserved. You’ve earned it. That one cold pint at the end of the night becomes part of the rhythm — a small release after all the chaos.

But for me, that “one” turned into “a few,” and “a few” turned into “most nights.”

The fact I was managing made it easy, too.

It was simple enough to “waste” a beer or two — a mispour, a breakage, the kind of thing that happened all the time. And they did happen. Just maybe a little more often when I was working, if I’m being honest.

I’d pull a large Peroni — usually two — and write them down on the system so the stock checked out fine. No one questioned it. It wasn’t even really breaking the rules.

We were told that after a busy shift, it was fine to give the team a drink — a little reward for hard work. That was standard.

I just made sure I was part of that team reward.

At first, it was harmless. One or two to unwind after a long, stressful shift. You tell yourself you’ve earned it, and maybe you have. But slowly, without even meaning to, it became a ritual.

By the time the last table had left, the lights were dimmed, and the tills were cashed up, I’d already have my pint poured. The music would go on low, a few laughs from the team, and that first sip would hit differently — the tension easing, the mind slowing down.

It didn’t take long for it to stop being an occasional thing and start becoming the norm.

I didn’t call it a problem then. I didn’t think it was one. In my mind, I was just winding down like everyone else. But looking back, I can see it — the slow creep. The way I justified it to myself, the way I normalised it.

It wasn’t out of control — not yet. But it was there. Brewing quietly.

That was work for this whole part — the Bournemouth chapter.

Persistence. Progression. Arrival.

For the first time, I’d found a rhythm that actually felt like life was working. I had placement, comfort, and a sense of achievement. I’d gone from walking miles to a dishwashing job to managing a busy restaurant. It wasn’t luck anymore — it was earned.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’d found a circle of people I laughed regularly with. A proper group. Workmates who became friends, faces I’d see every day, people I could rely on to share the highs and the chaos.

There were a number of us who grew close — long hours, shared pressure, the constant mix of stress and laughter that binds hospitality people together. But funny thing is, I don’t speak to any of them now.

That whole world — those faces, those nights, those laughs — feels like it belongs to someone else’s life.

And this is yet another area where the drinking and drugs crept in. Not as an escape this time, not out of pain or emptiness, but just habit. It was part of the culture, part of the flow. A slow escalation that never really felt like one until I looked back years later.

There’s not much more to share about that side of things. Work was work. It kept me busy. It kept me moving.

So for now, I’ll leave it there.

Next comes home life — what was going on behind closed doors, while everything else on the surface seemed to be rolling along nicely.