It’s Friday night and the husband arrives home from work.
‘Are we going to the Thai?’ he says.
The local Thai has become a Friday night fixture. We go so often now that the woman who runs it has begun to giggle inanely when we set foot in the door. She foists free mango sorbet upon us, and throws in the occasional basket of complimentary prawn crackers. We’ve taken to bowing to her with our hands clasped as we leave.
‘We could go for a civilised meal at the Thai,’ I said.
‘Or… we could roam down to our local grubby Pizza Hut, snap up a £5 pizza each on their ‘Special 5′ deal, and eat it on a park bench.’
‘Pizza on a park bench!’ says hubby.
We’ve developed a new hobby of eating pizzas on park benches, walls – and even one of those yellow grit bins at the end of the road. It’s a lot of fun. Go and try it. There’s something reassuringly back to basics about shivering on street corners, chomping your way through a pizza that you’ve managed to procure for a mere fiver.
If it takes off, it could even be developed as some form of middle-class therapy: kind of reconnecting with your youth. And I suppose you could go the whole hog and wash it down with a bottle of Diamond White while you’re at it.
After a couple of drinks at the bar up the road (the giant dog was in situ again. It was Friday night after all; he’s almost a regular now), we wandered down to Pizza Hut to collect our pepperoni feasts.
We were greeted by a portly man of dubious hygiene, who grunted and then disappeared into the back to forage for our pizzas. He looked like Mr Twit.
We wandered up the road, sat on a yellow grit bin and started working our way through the two medium-sized feasts.
‘I think I’m going to have half here and then half back at home,’ I said.
‘It’s an interesting strategy,’ said the husband. ‘My only fear is that it will be too cold by the time you get home.’
‘Not if you close the lid in between each slice and contain the warmth,’ I said.
As we greedily chomped away, two police officers came strolling towards us.
‘Evening, officer,’ said the husband, in a terribly British voice.
‘Evening, officer,’ I chirped.
The policeman and policewoman didn’t return our greeting, choosing to stare at us curiously instead.
I don’t know what is about encountering a couple of bobbies on the beat that turns one into an extra from Midsomer Murders. When I see a police officer, I immediately transform into a blustering buffoon, convinced that I’ve got something to hide.
As the police officers eyed us suspiciously, I had to fight the urge to say, ‘There’s nothing to see here officers: just me and my double pepperoni pizza. We don’t want any trouble!’
The police officers moved on and we ambled home.
‘Did you know that Philip Seymour Hoffman was found with 70 bags of heroin in his apartment? 70 bags! ‘ mused the husband.
‘It’s very sad,’ I said.
‘I think he might have been my favourite actor in the last 20 years,’ added the husband.
‘Really?!’ I said. ‘In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you so much as utter the words Phillip Seymour Hoffman, let alone proclaim he’s your favourite-ever actor!’
‘If was found dead in an apartment, I’d probably be surrounded by 50 empty boxes of double pepperoni pizza,’ said the husband, sadly.
Back at the ranch, the husband chewed thoughtfully.
‘Do you think that Pizza Hut tell people about the ‘Special 5′ deal or do you think they allow people to just stumble in and blindly order a medium-sized pizza for £9.95, knowing that they could get it for £5?’ pondered the husband.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I said. ‘But next Friday, let’s give it a go. We’ll go in pretending we don’t know about the deal and see what happens. And if hairy man keeps us in the dark about the deal, we’ll reveal all.’
‘Next Friday is Valentine’s Day,’ said the husband.
‘Even better!’ I said.