Okay, before you think I’m a total loser, let me just clarify that. I haven’t actually been looking for a job for the last two and a half years. God, no. That really would be sad.

You see, I went overseas straight after graduating and spent two years living in London. So I’ve only been back in Joburg for the past five months. Sometimes I wonder whether it wouldn’t have been better to have skipped the whole travelling thing. At least I’d have my feet firmly planted on the career ladder by now.

But London was such a blast, I can’t really regret it. Especially the second year, when Steph came over to join me. We got by on waitressing and au pairing, and still managed to see most of Europe while we were at it. No, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

But we’ve been back in South Africa since just before Christmas, and it’s now May already. It’s getting harder and harder to keep pretending that the year has only just begun. I can’t understand it. I’m black, for God’s sake. And a woman. Shouldn’t I be CEO of a company by now?

I swing my car viciously into Ballyclare Drive, flashing a zap sign at the minibus taxi that tries to cut me off. A few months back in town, and I’ve already morphed into an obnoxious Joburg driver.

I force myself to take a deep breath and unclench my fingers from the steering wheel. The traffic is bumper to bumper all the way down the hill so there’s no point in getting into a stew. I’ll still make it to work by five o’clock, even if I have to throw on my uniform when I get there.

Oh, didn’t I tell you about my job?

I do have one, you know – although officially I consider myself unemployed. One has to be able to afford those little day-to-day luxuries like rent and food. And it’s not like my parents are queuing up to help. “Stand on your own two feet” – that’s their motto. Which would be fine if most people didn’t automatically assume that I must have a trust fund, because of who my dad is. And even when I tell them, I can see that they don’t quite believe me. They seem to think I have a couple of offshore accounts tucked away somewhere.

Huh. I wish.

Right, I’m finally here.

I turn my car into the parking lot of the Bryanston Shopping Centre and start looking for a bay close to the Bridles sign. This is where I work, you see – at the Bridles Steakhouse. And no, I’m not a waitress.

My favourite car guard spots me and waves me into the empty space he’s been keeping for me. He is such a sweetie-pie. Every night when I finish my shift, I SMS him and he walks me from the restaurant back to my car.

Normally, I stop for a chat, but today I barely have time for a quick hello. I hurtle up the steps and fling open the glass entrance doors. I’m not actually late, thank God, but still, my shift manager Happy gives an irritated little glance at his watch.

“Traffic,” I pant, rushing past him on my way to the staff loo. He sighs and clicks his tongue. I can feel his stare all the way to the bathroom, but I refuse to feel guilty. I’ll scramble into my uniform and be at my post at exactly two minutes to five.

“Cutting it fine, girl!” says a voice from somewhere near the basins, as I yank my top over my head.

“Look who’s talking,” I mumble.

It’s Busi – one of the waitresses. She’s also getting dressed at the last minute. The only other part-timer at Bridles, Busi’s studying graphic design at Wits, and waitresses in the evenings to make ends meet. The only thing we have in common is the fact that we can both imagine a life outside of the cheesy Western-themed décor of Bridles Steakhouse. But that’s enough for both of us.

We always try to work the same shifts, and keep each other’s spirits up by fantasising about the amazing jobs we’re going to get one day. All of them involve never having to set foot inside a Bridles ever again.

“So how was the Business Day interview?” Busi asks, slashing at her mouth with a tube of lipgloss.

“Shocking.”

I wrap my scratchy Apache Princess tunic around my hips and tie it firmly in place. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s how to tie a kick-ass double knot. When you’ve had your underwear exposed to the world as often as I have, you learn to toddler-proof your uniform.

“That bad, huh?”

“Worse. The interviewer practically rolled around on the floor laughing at me. She’s probably SMSing all her friends as we speak to tell them about the total loser she interviewed today.”

“Ouch!” Busi winces. “Still, it wasn’t exactly your dream job, was it?”

“Help me put this bloody headdress on, won’t you?” I tug irritably at a feather that refuses to stay up. Busi holds the headdress in place while I weave a couple of hairpins to anchor it.

“No, it wasn’t my dream job,” I agree. “But still – it was a job. It would have been a step in the right direction.”

“Something much better will come along soon. Just wait and see.” Busi has all the optimism of a student, without any idea of what it’s like out there in the real world. Still, never mind. She’ll find out soon enough.

A mighty thump on the door tells us that Happy is still out there, watch in hand, waiting for us to come on shift. We scuttle back into the restaurant.

Busi heads straight for the kitchens, while I make my way to the soft-play area where a collection of parents and toddlers are eagerly waiting for me.

So there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.

This is what I spent three years at university for. To be the one-woman entertainment committee at a glorified hamburger hut.

***

Tell us what you think: Do you think Busi is right? What do you think Trinity should do to find the right job?