My first Day as a Runner

I felt incredibly British last Friday.

It was the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games held in London, and I was a runner.

You can wipe the sweat from your brows – those last two facts weren’t linked, I won’t be losing any races for us Brits.

No, I was feeling incredibly British yesterday because I was standing in a queue waiting for a cup of tea.

It was fairly early and I hadn’t had a great deal of sleep from the night before. It was my first runner job and I was unsure what to expect. I don’t have a media degree or any real practical work experience and practically begged the lady on the phone to give me the job. I think she must have heard the desperation in my voice because thankfully she decided to give me a chance. I was grateful, but nervous. I’d never done anything like this before and television is a notoriously difficult business to break in to. Camera equipment is expensive, and I am a bumbling idiot.

I needed to get prepared. I printed off my Runner’s Checklist from The Unit List and began to pack my bag. My mother looked shocked at the sight.

“Are you going on a Duke of Edinburgh walk?” she enquired curiously as I double bagged its innards with waterproof sacks, trying to prepare for every eventuality. I’ve been involved in the award since I was thirteen, so it was an easy mistake to make - especially since I was there struggling to fit a blowtorch and ice pick in my rucksack.

“No mother, I am going to be a runner. Do you have any black tape? “

She shook her head and wandered away, leaving me black-tapeless and alone with my gigantic wares. My boyfriend tried to console me saying it didn’t matter, they wouldn’t need black tape; we were filming inside a hospital, it would be far more beneficial to me to just get a good night’s sleep. So I lay there drifting in an out of my nightmares; running after celebrities on sticky black tape floors next to a river of coffee...

*

“Hi, I’m Kelsey. I’ll be your runner for the day!” I tried to sound chipper, without being sickly sweet.

“Hi Kelsey, runner of the day –do you have any black tape on you by any chance?”

My heart sank. That was it; my big opportunity. Blown.

“No bother, would you mind popping across and grabbing us a cup of tea?”

It was a task I could do – I immediately flipped my notebook out of my bum-bag (Re: later awkward conversation I would have with the team ‘Do you call it a bum-bag or a fanny-pack?’ ‘I call it a bum-bag. I think the American’s that call it a fanny-pack, and today I am being overly British, because of the Olympics.’’ “Oh... that’s nice. You don’t see many people in bum-bags anymore...”)

“Shall I get an order in, what does everyone want?” I had five pens in my hand, all different colours - just in case the order got confusing and I’d need to colour code it.

“Just a cup of tea please, does anyone else want a cup of tea?”

“Oh, yes, I’d love a cup of tea!”

“Yes, cup of tea for me as well please!”

I stood there panicking about the overly uncomplicated order. “Milk semi, skimmed or full? Any particular brand of sugar? No lattes? No syrups? What about sandwiches? And bacon rolls?”

“Oh, three bacon rolls would be lovely, thank you!”

I shot into the lift and punched the ground floor button. I looked at my blank looking sheet of paper. Three cups of tea, as they come. Three bacon rolls. I can do this...

 I thought of my last ever shift as a waitress last week. I was used to complicated orders; people screaming in my face; getting burnt by sizzling pans and hiding out the back whimpering while my table tried to get discounts for their meals by complaining to my boss. Sometimes I’d wonder why I did it. Why did I endure such awful behaviour from some members of the general public?  Waiting might be about as thankless a job as they come – but it did give me the experience I needed to remember orders and prioritise tasks.

I stood at the coffee stand about to give my order. I still wasn’t sure why I’d stuck my previous job out so long when I disliked it so much. It was nice to be the other side of the counter for a change. I looked at the barista; he was roughly about fifteen, a few teenage spots freckling his features, work hat jutting awkwardly as if it might fall off and sweat starting to form on his head. There was a woman shouting at him.

“I want my baguette!” as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“I-I-know...” stuttered the poor boy, confirming he was aware of this. “You said you wanted it heated-“

“I want to eat it!” She bellowed. The boy’s hat quivered. “Now!”

The boy flung into action and ran toward the bread oven where her sandwich was being toasted. He uttered a string of apologetic woes that fell on deaf ears as the woman scowled and walked off.

I couldn’t believe her attitude. It was the same sense of stunned disbelief I felt towards customers who had shouted at me in the past – people who seemed to forget that the folks serving their beverages aren’t merely functions. They’re people. The kid could be working towards a degree in aerospace engineering for all we knew – or not. It didn’t matter, he’s still a person.

 I wondered whether I should say anything to the woman to make her realise how she had treated the boy, but figured it would make little difference to her. Instead I settled by rolling my eyes and sharing a knowing smile at the boy as I gave my order. As I thanked him, I threw a little something in the tip jar next to him to try to make up for the awful woman’s attitude, knowing it would lift his spirits at the end of the shift.

Perhaps that’s why we stick it out? Why we brave the fire-breathing dragons; for an extra quid at the end of the night.

Maybe it’s so we can develop our suit of armour.

A reminder of the rich variety of people we meet in this life.

Either way, it didn’t prepare me for my first day as a runner, where I would be involved in a project with cancer patients.

I’ve got a pretty bad confession to make here. A few years ago I travelled to India where I was given the opportunity to work with a number of NGO’s. I feel really awful saying this but when we were given the list of possible choices we could volunteer to help at, I put down every other possible option other than speaking to the cancer patients. I simply didn’t know how people could do it. When the list of names were called out determining where we would complete our placements, the only thing that went through my mind was Please, not the cancer patients. Please, not the cancer patients...

I’ve never admitted that to any one before and I have no explanation as to why I thought that way, other than, I simply didn’t know what I could say to them. How could I talk to these people? I couldn’t make it go away. I was scared of it, of the people, the illness. It was the big C word.

I was terrified, and I’m ashamed of myself.

A little while later when a friend of mine developed cancer, I didn’t know what to say to him either. I didn’t know how to act, what to ask. So he took the lead. Surprisingly of all the things, he asked how my blog was. He said he didn’t really get out of the house much anymore and he’d been enjoying reading it. He’d gone through every single post I’d ever written, and wondered why I hadn’t updated it in so long.

 I couldn’t quite believe it.

I realised then that although things were different, we were still the same people. He didn’t want to talk about the cancer; he wanted to talk about normal, every-day life. So we did. It turned out I’d been pretty busy, so we had a lot to talk about.

My friend did eventually lose the battle with cancer. It took me a few days for me to realise that I hadn’t actually updated the blog since the very first time he asked me – even though he asked me about it every time we had met since. It was something very small, but I felt very sad about that, for a long, long time afterwards.

That’s when I decided that I would actually keep to a blog, whatever criticism I may encounter. Even though I go through phases of how frequent I update the blog, I do write them, even if I don’t publish them. I’m not pretentious about the influence or the content of these blogs, but you never know who’s reading, and I guess I have the belief now that for some, even if it’s only for a brief moment, me talking about my crappy days are, for some, escapism from their own. It’s an opportunity for us all to laugh about it together.

When I greeted the first man on the production, I didn’t know for certain whether or not he had cancer. I found myself looking at him, and saying to myself, He doesn’t look like he has cancer... the man was tanned, well built, and well dressed. But what exactly does a cancer patient look like?

I found myself being engulfed by these people’s incredible stories. I’m unsure how much I’m allowed to say about different productions I work on, so I’ll move on very quickly, but suffice to say I am very, very much looking forward to seeing the finished product of this documentary. I learnt a lot about myself that day and I guess I finally conquered my own small fight with the C-word, and hopefully, I can lay it to rest for now.

I came away thinking about how my first day had gone. I’ve heard the phrase “glorified tea-girl!” being thrown around when people talk about runners, and I’ve been warned not to turn my nose up at the prospect of being asked to make a cup of tea, which always surprised me, but perhaps that’s because I’d been used to getting the orders in after all these years.

All the same, I’d just like to set the record straight and say to anyone who is generous enough to tell me their story – my kettle is always on.

Whatever my profession.

And to Matthew, if you’re still reading buddy – thank you. You were the push I needed to get this thing rolling.