Then one by one she sets down each crate on the doorstep, while I empty it, placing the items on the floor of the hallway. When I finish with the last crate, I stand back, survey all the items spread across the floor and say, “Looks like there’s some stuff missing, I’m afraid. There’s the newspaper for a start. And the bottles of water.”
“Oh, no!” she exclaims, looking even more red-faced and flustered. “I double-checked that there was nothing else for you in the van before I came down.” She snatches up the list of groceries from the floor where I left it, pulls a pen out of a pocket and continues, “We’ll need to find out what’s missing. I’ll read out the items on the list and mark them off once you confirm that they’re there. Okay, let’s start…”
She proceeds to shout out the items. I struggle to keep up with her. She is also very loud, so much so that the whole street is in danger of knowing what we eat, what we clean ourselves with and what we wipe our arses with. “Fuck sake,” I mutter to myself as the nightmare unfolds.
She goes apoplectic. “There’s no need to swear at me! It’s not my fault! I’ve a good mind to report you!”
“I wasn’t swear–” I begin to protest, but I’ve had enough by now. I snatch back the list and close the front door on her.
“You’ll never receive another delivery! I’ll make sure you’re banned for life!” she screams at the door.
I swear she spends a full five minutes ranting in that vein, during which time I put away the groceries, establish what hasn’t been delivered and speak on the phone to a very helpful wee lassie at Tesco’s head office to report the missing items and claim a refund.
While all this is going on, Alison is lying in bed, resting after that morning’s intake of medications. I go upstairs to let her know that I’m nipping out to buy a newspaper. She is sitting up with a big grin on her face, the brightest I’ve seen her for weeks. “I heard it all,” she chuckles. “Couldn’t stop laughing when you shut the door on her. I do like your style, Mr Gisby.”