Recently [cinema] has been involved in promoting Dr Pepper. This has meant we've all been issued with fetching Dr Pepper t-shirts with, "What's the worst that could happen?" boldly emblazoned across the back. I think that this is a frankly naive question to be asking in the circumstances.
As fate would have it, I'd chosen to wear said Dr Pepper t-shirt on my ten hour ushering shift last week. I'd just emerged from cleaning a screen so comprehensibly covered in rubbish that it had caused a customer on her way out to blush and apologise for humanity at large, when a colleague approached me with a grin all over his face, "I've got a special job for you, a little girl's just been sick in screen 8." Music to my ears. Since the previous sick incident I'd learnt a bit more about the procedure involved and knew that a manager had to be present during the clear up for health and safety reasons, so I marched away to phone the upstairs office. With a manager's help surely it would be bearable. I mean, what's the worst that could happen?
[ring ring! ring ring!]
Manager: Hello?
Our Glamorous Heroine: Hi, I need some help, someone's been sick in a screen.
M: Oh, ah, er... can't Other Usher help you?
OGH: Yes, he can, but in training we were told we need a manager present.
M: Erm... well technically you do but really all it means is that you can refuse to do it without a manager present and, er... I think it would show great strength of character on your part if you just got on with it
OGH: Right. Fine. [Puts phone down with rather more force than strictly necessary.]
Luckily on this occasion there was a sick kit in the ushers' cupboard and, clutching it to me like a comfort blanket, I made my way to screen 8. I'd been told that the vomiter was a little girl so, foolishly, I was hoping there wouldn't be too much mess, I mean, what's the worst that could happen? The pile that greeted me looked like it could comfortably have been made by a large adult after a junk food binge. Floating in the pool, I could make out semi-digested popcorn and pick & mix. Once again the solidifying crystals were rendered useless by the sheer volume. And so I found myself shovelling rancid smelling excreta into a bin bag, this time to the fitting soundtrack of 'When Will I Be Famous?' by Bros.
As soon as I'd finished my unsavoury task, Manager appeared downstairs. "All done?" he asked too cheerfully, "Could you do a toilet check then, please?" As I trudged down to the ladies' I comforted myself with the fact that I must have fulfilled my gruesome clear up quota for the day, nothing could be as bad as what I'd just dealt with. I mean, (all together now) what's the worst that could happen? It was upon peering into the third cubicle that I got my answer. I pulled the door to and hurried out.
Manager: Everything alright?
OGH: Er, no. What should be used to clean blood off a toilet seat?
Manager: [turns white] Oh God!
And no, there isn't a menstrual blood kit either.
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