I ordered a takeaway curry last night.
Well, actually it was a delivery as I couldn’t be arsed to do a ten mile round trip.
The phone was answered by the usual bloke who talks faster than a racehorse with a rocket up its arse. He reminds me of those people who spout gibberish at the and of radio advertisements that promise some amazing offer – “Terms and conditions apply. This offer is only available to residents of Tralee over the age of a hundred“. You know the kind of thing?
I am used to this bloke. Every call is exactly the same so I have worked out what to say and when to say it. I get a rapid blast of a question which translates to “May I have your telephone number please?” though he says it in the space of about a quarter of a second. So after each blast of highly compressed noise I give the appropriate answer. It works well every time.
A while later the doorbell rang. Several times. In the space of about a minute [people don’t realise I have to weave my way through several rooms to get to the front door]. Normally it’s a cheerful local lad of about my own age who is obviously doing nixers to supplement his pension. Last night’s chap was new. He was big. I mean really fucking big. He spoke with a sort of Russian undertone, sounding like the evil world-dominating villain in a James Bond film. He looked vaguely familiar but he didn’t stay for a chat.
It was after he left that I remembered where I had possibly seen his face before.
I think I know where the leader of the Wagner Group is in hiding.
My delivery man?