The following is an excerpt from a new essay which will be featured in my book that's coming out May 17.

When I was nineteen, I moved to Bondi. Desperate for a job, I asked my cousin, Sarah—who owned the cafe Porch and Parlour—whether she had any barista positions opening.

“No permanent positions, yet. But we need someone to work this Sunday for the City to Surf. Sam and I are out of town.” Sam is Sarah’s husband and the head chef at the cafe.

“Sure.”

“A warning, though. It’s going to be busy.”

“I’ll be right.” I was confident. But that was before I knew the City to Surf is practically a human stampede that stretches twelve kilometres.

I didn’t know there’d be tens of thousands of runners. And neither did I anticipate so many supporters at the finish line, which I’d later discover, was an arms-throw away from Porch and Parlour.

Usually, when you start at a cafe, there’s a grace period. You work a few quiet days so you have time to understand the different processes, coffee machine, and where things are stored. But, this time, I didn’t get that luxury. That Sunday morning, before I even had time to find out where the extra takeaway cups were, there was a line down the street.

The most terrifying thing about the setup at Porch and Parlour was the coffee machine’s location. Usually, the coffee station is nestled in the corner or at the back of the cafe. In other words, locations where customers can’t hassle you from every direction. At Porch, though, the machine was at the entrance where people could reach you from the outside and inside—at all angles.

(Refer to drawing above)

Perhaps you’ve been to war and know that being exposed like that has disastrous consequences. But I’d never been. So I was unprepared when I walked into the coffee station and became surrounded by hundreds of prying customers.

. . .

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