One of the conditions to go to work with pleasure is to love your job.
But is it hard to love your job and bring people a good mood?
Or is it involuntary to make others admire their work, not creative at all?

From my life in Moscow, I remembered two such people.
1st She worked at the metro station Octoberskaya, where the transition from the ring to the radial is a small escalator in length and depth. The officer’s budka looked “with the face” at the descendants.
During those years, she seemed to me old) with a faint face, always in a red cap, and always with lively eyes and a smile on her face.
She was unrepeatable and irresistible) She addressed almost everyone who descended on "her" escalator, with a smile, who had time - said some kind words, somehow joked, looking at her, the mood was always up.
When we saw her, we always smiled, she was like a single whole with the station of Octoberskaya)Without a cap, we could no longer imagine this transition. It was evident that the work was pleasing to her.
Work on an escalator with the maximum length of 30 meters
Oh my cap! This is how we called her between us. Subconsciously expecting that every time we move to the radial, we will see it, saddened when there was no change. There was no ordinary ritual. There was no reason to smile. Something good and usual was missing.
And then she disappeared. She was replaced by duty officers with a dull downward glance and an indifferent face.
Looking into the monitor? She also looked into the monitor. But her service raised everyone’s mood.

2nd The end of the 90s - the beginning of the 2000s. I am at the beginning of the highway. Communal services are paid only in Sberbank - or then still Sberkassa? I don’t remember, in my area this process could take half a day, and I couldn’t afford such a luxury. In front of the work, in Mogajka, right at the stop, there is also a sberbank, but it was even worse than in my five-storey Cheremuškki with houses that were sprinkled like mushrooms after a good rain.
On the other side of the neighborhood, where there was an office, was, and now I think is, the Red Star Street, and in one of the corner houses on the nine-story was Sberbank and the post office.
The area here was also inhabited and the neighborhood was dormant, but on the other side of the Red Stars were railways and the number of potential visitors to these vital objects at the time was narrowed to the inhabitants of the neighborhood, houses inhabited in the 60-70s. The neighborhood was also in ruins.
And I used to spend lunch time paying the communal in this sberkass.
The window was, if I am not mistaken, not less than 3, the line was also, but in one window the line was always almost lightning. So by the empirical method I began to pay only in this window.
A professional worked there. No, not the professional. The highest class. No one ever stood by her window. She only had to look at the receipt and tell me where the numbers were wrong—if there was a mistake—I had the impression that she knew all of those numerous account numbers, consisting of 20 digits. In turn, if it arose due to a technical interruption, it was dissolved immediately. All the comments on the receipts she had were clear and short, excluding a repeat question. Because it was clear)

I went to this sberkassa, rather to this operationalist, for several years. I told my colleagues about it, they didn't believe me) we went to make sure. Everyone was, say, very surprised.
I told her about her at home. I was not believed either.
I went specifically to check, now my households were surprised.

Once again, I went to pay for this scrap.
The officer stood at the entrance and smoked. She looked somewhere, thinking about something, at least her face was not smiling. I went into the room and then thought and went out. When there will be such a chance.

“I would like to tell you that you are a real professional... You work this way, you always help everyone in these intricate numbers and, most importantly, quickly. Do not stay in line for a long time. Thanks to you!
thank you! The operator was surprised and somehow delighted. “You’re the only one who said good words to me,” she smiled bitterly. I have complaints to my boss. I work too fast. I have hated the Soviet times. The local grandmothers don’t like it. They want to stand in line...

I don’t remember if Sberbank employees had badges at that time, but there was a sign with the employee’s name and surname on the bench.
Svetlana Odoevskaya, thank you again!