Domino's numpty

Sometimes something happens that renders even me temporarily speechless. One such even occurred on Monday evening.

As Mrs Steve and I regularly do, we decided to have a pizza for tea - one from our local Domino's store. It's fair to say that since this store opened we've been regular users of its delivery service; I would imagine we've had over 50 deliveries from them. And none of them have ever been an issue.

Until Monday.

About 35 minutes after I placed the order, our 'phone rang.

"Hello, this is your Domino's driver. I'm having trouble finding your house - I'm outside number 40 and I can't see it."

At this point, it's worth knowing that our house number is 41. More astute readers will recognise that this is an odd number, whereas 40 is an even number. And yes, on our street the consecutive numbers are not opposite one another. But when are they ever?! Bloody tool.

Thus I wandered to the top of our drive - still on the phone - and located the errant driver, waving at him so that he could see where our house was.

"Okay, I can see you."

Thank fuck for that. I returned to the house and hung up the phone and waited for our tasty pizza.

And waited.

And waited.

I discovered just this morning that, after ending his call to me, the driver ventured towards our house, but clearly couldn't remember the exact spot where he'd seen me. So he guessed, and knocked on the appropriate front door.

The door he chose was to number 45. The clue to this was the fact that there's a fucking big "45" on the front of it.

Jan, our neighbour at number 45, pointed the Domino's mentalist in the right direction, and he finally appeared with our pizzas. I took them, and he buggered off.

You'd think that would be the end of my pizza-acquiring ordeal. Was it buggery! Cathy's pizza was fine, but when I opened mine, ALL of the topping was in a big pile at one end of the box. The rest of the pizza was completely empty apart from a smear of BBQ sauce.

I called the store, and in fairness to them they were very helpful. No problem, sir, we'll send another one to you - just let the driver have that one back.

About 20 minutes later, the very same cock-brain of a driver returned with my new pizza. "Oh, I'm ever so sorry," spake he. "The bag fell off the seat onto the floor of the car, but I thought it would be alright".

Thought?! That's hardly your fucking strong point is it, you bloody muppet. You didn't bother to check? You've spent at the very least 17 years on this planet and still don't understand how house numbering works?! You know you're looking for number 41 but reckon that if you can't locate it, 45 will do just as well?! You, sir, are a fucking retard.

The pizza was lovely, though...