Takeaway Terror

A takeaway is one of life's most treasured gifts. The idea of ordering yummy foods all precooked and ready and having them brought to your door to be eaten however you like, in the comfort of your own home. It all sounds faultless, brilliant, divine-that is, if you get the  food you bloody ordered.

On too many occasions has my takeaway experience been utterly obliterated by not actually getting what I want. I'm all set,drink on the side, plate and cutlery at the ready,Saturday night TV rearing to go and the sofa bum mould is beckoning me to sit down and begin tucking in to the bliss in the brown bag . A perfect scenario, until i realize, what i want isn't there. I check again (several times in fact) but no, it's nowhere to be seen. I panic,I fumble, I frown. It's no use, sound the alarms- a meal is missing.

Now, however small what I am missing is, I feel cheated. It could be a few pathetic poppadoms, but I just can't let it slide. My body won't let me.  My dinner won't quite be the same if i try to ignore the problem- it's like a piece is missing, my taste buds are sickened and appalled with the absence of the dish. The only option is to ring up and complain. This, for me, means further pain. I mean it's bad enough ,coping with the sadness and dissatisfaction that engulfs me without my dish, but now i must be overridden with guilt as i moan to the restaurant workers. 

Thing is, after all the awkwardness on the phone there's also that  excruciating moment where the new , correct food changes hands, both of you wallowing in embarrassment. Having to look them in the eye after all your moaning and them into yours after their failure to do their job properly. Shudders. And while this whole catastrophe has unfolded, your other food has gone cold, the TV show has raced ahead (and you just know you've missed the best bits!) and the bum mould on the sofa that before beckoned, has now risen to a mere,worthless crumple. Brilliant.