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More than just a fashion crisis, working in McDonald's turned out to be hard work

Three writers step outside their comfort zones for the day to work a different job. It might look like a breeze, but unskilled work can be quite challenging

Zoe Christodoulides takes on gardening

“Got any wellies?” belts out Alexander down the phone. “Um, no.” I know I really should own a pair of sensible shoes but I’m one of those people whose middle name should have been ‘impracticality’.

Shoes are worn to look good, trousers are made to be flattering and handbags are usually dainty. Why else would you spend money on an item of clothing if it’s not to jazz up your wardrobe?

It’s 9am and to say that I look like a clown is a mild understatement. Although rarely has the day started with me not having a clue how to put an outfit together, now really is the time when I solemnly declare: there’s a first time for everything.

I’m about to embark on a day gardening with Nicosia gardener Alexander McCowan, usually spotted in his trusted jeep as he darts off to various embassies and other residences in need of that certain je ne sais quoi when it comes to their outdoor paradise.

But for me, gardening is rather uncharted territory. I’ve never planted flowers, I’ve only once owned a pot plant, and I’ve never really cared to familiarise myself with the name of any shrub or bush or lovely smelling herb.

Alexander and I have made a 9.30am appointment but it’s now 9.15am and I’m still rummaging through my wardrobe hoping to find something that fits the bill. I go for a baggy cardi, woolly hat and tracksuit bottoms (one of the few pairs I own) tucked into old leather boots.

I find Alexander busying himself with some pruning at the Irish Embassy. “Ever used a hoover before?” he asks. Um, I might not be blessed with green fingers but surely he thinks I’m capable of doing a bit of cleaning? “No, no, not a normal hoover!” he says.

At that moment, he reaches for a rather industrial looking cylindrical shaped piece of work that makes an almighty sound as I’m asked to ‘hoover’ up fallen leaves from the surrounding area. If I forget about the fact that my whole arm has started manically vibrating upon impact and that the sound is as deafening as sounds can be, it’s a relatively breezy task that makes me believe I’m onto a good thing.

Next up is the lawn. I’ve always loved the smell of freshly cut grass but never gone near a mower so I’m quite excited to give it a go. Step I: put the orange lead over my right shoulder to avoid disaster. Step 2: aim for a straight line. Step 3: switch on the engine and hope for the best.

I start off as slow as a snail and the first line isn’t too bad. But turning the mower round to start on the next line is a laughing matter and before you know it I’m entangled in wire and about to fall over. I seem to pick it up and think I’m doing rather well until Alexander suggests it’s time to step away from the machine.

“Right enough of that,” he says ever so politely. “See that hedge over there? I’d like you to try and trim it down straight.” But surely it must be time for a tea break? But the worlds of gardening and writing are worlds apart, as Alexander points towards a looming thick grey cloud that will soon be hanging over us as a bitter chill sweeps through the air. “It might rain soon, got to be quick,” he calls out. Right then, no tea just yet.

I’d like to say that trimming a hedge is as easy as pie but I’d be lying. Quite fun to begin with, I soon realise I haven’t been very symmetrical in my endeavour, resulting in a hedge that clumsily slants to one side and a professional gardener who has to retrace my steps.

“Care for a garden tour?” he asks with a smile. I was definitely expecting the climactic moment when he regrets taking me on for the day. I soon learn about the cold winds hindering the growth of flowers at this time of year, the dessert palms that flourish in Cyprus and I’m even given some leaves and flowers to try. Yep, that’s right, organic breakfast (who needs tea?). “This is a Nasturtium,” points out Alexander. “The leaves can be used in salad and are ever so good for you.”

As my taste buds try and accustom to the tangy, peppery flavour, I realise one thing I love about this day. I haven’t even once thought about checking my emails nor have I missed the phone calls that cause a crick in your neck as you attempt to hold the phone on your shoulder while typing. But would I ever step into someone else’s gardening shoes in a more serious fashion? Not as long as wellies are still a ‘must have’ in the gardening clothing bible!

Eleni Antoniou at McDonald’s

I’ve been standing for hours with a constant buzz in my head that later develops into a blistering headache. I’m dressed in attire I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in and I am in desperate need of a cigarette. Not my idea of a good time, especially when it involves work. Usually, when I am working, I have my choice of background music, a computer and a relaxed mind bursting with ideas. But today I have become a McDonald’s employee. Oh. My. God.

I haven’t worn a uniform since school and consider there to be nothing more embarrassing than serving customers in an ill-fitting apron and an ugly hat that has crushed my hair to death.

I’m not the biggest McFan out there but I have often wondered what goes on behind that shoot that the burgers come out of. This is, after all, the world’s largest chain of hamburger fast food restaurants and one that has been subjected to so much scrutiny it really is a wonder we don’t know more about what exactly goes on.

Store manager at McDonald’s Engomi and a man that has gained every ounce of respect I could possibly have for a manager, Savvas Savva greets me outside. He wants to talk about what I will be doing today. My experience will be based on a three-day training course all employees must go through before being offered a job. 20 minutes later I am fascinated by my stupidity into thinking this was going to be nothing more than a monumental fashion crisis. There are strict rules to be followed – down to where and how much ketchup is put on a bun - and a total of six work stations that result in a paper bag containing a simple burger, fries and Coke. There’s the grill station and the fries station, the fried station and the service, the lobby and let’s not forget the drive-thru. Later I would witness a total of 100 cars passing through the drive-thru in one hour.

After I understandably give up on the idea of looking effortlessly chic in a red apron that’s almost down to my ankles and a blue baseball hat trimmed with the golden arches, I head into the kitchen and Savva is showing my the sink. Every employee in the restaurant must wash their hands every hour – there’s even a timer that goes off to alert them. Then, depending on a complicated graphic chart managers prepare on a daily basis, they head to their stations.

Before a burger to arrives, wrapped and ready, on your table, ten people in a four by four kitchen await instruction from the manager based on actual and projected throughput. If a BigMac’s been ordered, the person at the burger and toaster stations takes pre-cooked frozen burgers out of a small freezer and throws them on the grill while another slides the bun into a toaster before squirting ketchup and mustard and placing pickles and lettuce on top, which takes more concentration than you might imagine. That person then swings around in time to catch the burgers being scraped off the grill and placed on top of their arrangement. The tray is then passed on to a third person who wraps them and slides them down the shoot.

Now imagine this happening every second for six hours - that’s how long I lasted. Up to 20 burgers can be made in less than 10 minutes. This is because McDonald’s has a sophisticated system of levers and pullies, or rather equipment with timers, sensors and a lot of power located throughout the kitchen. There is a set way for everything to be done and no-one ever swerves from it. Burgers only need 40 seconds to be transformed from frozen block into the juicy treat we are all guilty of enjoying. McDonald’s also has a strict expiry code: if no-one orders any cooked food after a 30-minute life span it will be thrown out.

It might not be detrimental to humanity if a mistake is made but this is a fast food restaurant and as such, things have to move… fast, not to mention smoothly and correctly. Weary from the grill and balancing towers of cheese, lettuce, burgers and buns for Big Macs, towards the end of my experience I put on a headset to listen to the drive-thru orders. ‘A cheeseburger with fries, no coke, 9 nuggets, one hamburger with ketchup, one without and a Big Mac without pickle and lettuce, a Happy Meal and an apple pie. Oh and I have a coupon.’ In the couple of minutes it took the car to arrive at the window to pick it up, I almost cried. But I made it. I survived the experience and left with nothing but respect for the franchise and an overwhelming desire to put my feet up. And you can hold the fries.

Jill Campbell Mackay waits tables

I presented myself for evening duty at the Tex restaurant in Kato Paphos, tied on a standard issue, long, Brassiere-style apron and checked myself in the mirror to find Kathy Bates staring back. I was a dead ringer for the folksy, castrating psychopath she played in the movie Misery, and with her catch phrase - Say that again and I’ll break your ankles - ringing in my ears, I was ready to wait tables.

Waiting staff are in place long before the first customer arrives, it’s their responsibility to ensure all the garnishes are ready in the kitchen, check with chef on any specials and find out what ingredients are in each. The bar area has to be stocked with fresh ice, cut lemons, optics topped up, glasses checked for damage and laundered napkins are set out on each table. Needless to say my diligent attempts to spend five minutes off my feet inexpertly moulding a napkin into a dying swan didn’t earn any brownie points. Eagle eyed owner Tex saw through this delaying tactic and sent me to check all was shipshape in both the gents’ and ladies’ loos.

Perhaps fearing for his livelihood, Tex once again regaled me with the in-house mantra ‘good service is service given when the customer requires it’ which translated as ‘no hanging around tables constantly filling up glasses’. That put paid to my visions of being a bit of a meerkat, popping up unannounced whenever I felt there was juicy bit of gossip to be heard.

The first customers arrived to be greeted with all the charm and sunshine I could muster and then I led them to a table. Here I did my fussing around the crotch areas with the presentation of (non swan) napkins and took their drinks order.

The place suddenly started to become uncomfortably busy, coats had to be removed and secured, while one couple asked my advice on the menu so I proceeded to regale them with detailed dish descriptions, arriving back at the desk to proudly inform Tex of my first ‘pro’ interaction with his customers only to be told I had omitted to write down any of their order.

By 9pm plates were landing and taking off from the kitchen, I panicked with no familiarity of what a dish looked like once it was cooked, neither had I mugged up sufficiently on the table numbers.

After knocking back her second bottle of cabernet sauvignon, one diner was then in a position to make the most of her opportunity to tell someone else what to do. My patience was now at fine tissue tearing level. When told the toilets were upstairs, she asked if that meant she had to climb them. Fortunately she misunderstood my response when I suggested the alternative was bringing a bucket from the kitchen. “No, I don’t want an ice bucket”. Phew!

In truth it was all becoming a bit much for me, different people kept asking for different things, more bread, butter, water, what time was it, one chap even called me over to ask if I knew when coverage of the Winter Olympics started on TV. I was also suffering from severe hunger pangs, one customer actually asked if I would like to try one of their juicy grilled prawn after they spotted my look of sheer longing as I reluctantly laid down their all too tempting plate full. Only the swift intervention of Tex stopped me from accepting.

Happily people started to leave at around 11pm. I then lost the plot with the coats so much so when I offered a lady a nice quilted anorak, which she denied ownership of, I jokingly asked ‘if this is better than yours, why don’t you just take it’.

It was 11.45 and I had been on my feet for five hours and 15 minutes. My smile had evaporated along with any hunger pangs. By midnight I had moved through my Kathy Bates sledgehammer mode and entered the slow-moving world of a geriatric Mrs Overall. My pumpkin moment had come, I removed my apron handed it to Tex and crawled out the door. Three days later my calf muscles are still going into involuntary spasms and my dreams are littered with images of giant pink prawns in pursuit of swan shaped napkins.