Pizza My Mind

Carole’s out tonight. She’s gone to Nottingham to see Newton Faulkner and Amy McDonald. So I am home alone. Or as alone as you can be with a small, affectionate black and white cat.

I have spent the day watching nonsense on the telebox and playing on the Xbox and when it came to eating this evening it was seven o’clock before I’d even really thought about it. So I ordered a pizza.

Now, I used to love ordering a pizza. It used to be a bit of a treat for nights like this, when I was left entirely to my own devices. But it’s starting to lose the appeal a little bit. For some reason, when the food arrives it doesn’t live up to the idea of the food when you order it. It’s underwhelming. Even if you have scoured all the places least likely to give you food poisoning and found 50% off, so you don’t have to pay the exorbitant prices.

Underwhelmed.

Massively.

So, I think, that’s probably the end of that. Even now, after the event, I think I would have been happier with a bowl of cereal that I was with some doughy slices.

Also, when said item of food is delivered – one pizza, no sides – and you answer the door, you don’t really expect the delivery guy to say “Hey, you’re very hungry are you?” to you. Just because I answered the door, it doesn’t mean I’m the only person here. I mean, I am. But the leftovers can fester in the fridge for the morrow, to see if the idea of them excites me any more than the warm ones did tonight. So I don’t need some pizza delivery guy giving a director’s commentary on his deliveries which I had some how opted in to.

Actually, I wasn’t that hungry. And I felt the pang of regret not long after I clicked the order button. But no, you make some smart arse comment, feel free.

Twat.