I really needed something to drink. I worried over it as I waited for the delivery.
In the end, the pizza experience was extremely disappointing.
The man simply thrust a big box into my hand and took the envelope, which he then rudely ripped open right in front of me.
I heard him mutter fuck’s sake under his breath as he counted the coins.
I had been collecting fifty-pence pieces in a little ceramic dish, and this had seemed the perfect opportunity to use them up.
I’d popped an extra one in for him, but received no thanks for it. Rude.
The pizza was excessively greasy and the dough was flabby and tasteless.
I decided immediately that I would never eat delivered pizza again, and definitely not with the musician.
If we ever found ourselves in need of pizza and too far from a Tesco Metro, one of two things would happen.
One: we would take a black cab into town and dine at a lovely Italian restaurant.
Two: he would make pizza for us both, from scratch. He’d mix the dough, stretching and kneading it
with those long, tapered fingers, stroking it until it did what he wanted.
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