I’d had quite a long and challenging day yesterday, involving everything from breakages to lost keys via small children running amok and general rudeness.
It was one of those days where you’re really glad it’s over and all you want to do is settle down and relax in the evening.
So I did. I sat on the bus and ordered myself way too much pizza because using a deal was cheaper than doing things individually, and then I settled down with a bottle of beer and let the stresses and strains of the day flow from my body.
The pizza arrived, and the delivery man – rather than delivering – stood on the doorstep and had a five minute conversation about how he couldn’t see the door numbers from his car and that made it quite tricky for him. He was also seemingly baffled by their placement at the top of the door. I’m not sure where he thinks they should be. I didn’t ask him. All he was doing was just exacerbating the day’s woes.
Am I going to have to start adding driver instructions to the delivery order from now on. The next time I order a pizza probably won’t be for months, but I seem to remember the last time I got one – some time last year, I think – the driver tried to call me because he couldn’t find the house. I mean, I don’t know about you, but it’s not massively hard – really – to work out how a street works.
But clearly I’m going to have to remember to add things in the instructions like “brown door, conifer in front garden next to gate, house number on door but high up, hungry looking man in front room”. That sort of thing.
I might have had to fight for it, and it might have been a long day, but I won’t deny that sinking my teeth into that cheese covered thing of beauty was just what the doctor ordered.
And the fact that Carole wasn’t in had nothing to do with it. It was entirely the stresses and strains of the day.
And that’s the story I’m sticking to…