I know exactly what you’re thinking. But I’ve got no choice; I have to do it. I’m just following orders.
Is it my fault if I love it?
You were a tricky one to get. I clocked the Porsche and then I saw you sitting in the restaurant window, in your made-to-measure suit. I saw you tasting the wine. You did that thing that really irritates me, whizzing the wine around your mouth for a few seconds with a quizzical expression on your smug face and then saying, ‘Mmm, yes – not bad’ as though you know what a good wine actually tastes like. Your date looked entranced as you took your time to consult your palette. You did a good job of pretending you knew what you were talking about – but I bet after all that flourishing and mulling it over, it was only a bloody Chardonnay. If it was for your date’s benefit, you can forget it – you had her at ‘I drive a Porsche’.
I checked your ticket straight away and I can’t pretend I didn’t gnash my teeth when I saw you’d paid until 3 o’clock. That’s a long lunch by anyone’s standards. Desperate measures were called for. If you were wondering why such a reliable establishment took so long to dish up your soup and breast of pigeon, insisted you moved tables on a spurious excuse and didn’t bring the bill for nearly an hour, well, it’s because I’ve got friends in high places.
I typed in your details as soon as I arrived at the scene; I knew from the off this would be down to split-second timing and I wasn’t going to get caught out. There was a hairy moment at 2.55pm when the bill had been paid and it looked like you were going to make it back behind the steering wheel just in the nick of time. But neither of us bargained on the skill of my good friend who works in the cloakroom and took an age to get your Burberry back to you.
The buzz I get from this will last me three weeks. But don’t feel too bitter, since my wife left me, this is all I have.