RING RING RING. The silver-corded phone that sits to the left of the counter, worn from years of being picked up and slammed down, is shrilling again. I hastily pick it up.
"Hello, Lucky Star. How may I help you?" I automatically regurgitate in my sing-song takeaway-order voice. "A delivery? Sure, can I have your address? Please? 34 Heol-yr-esgob. And what’s your phone number in case anything happens and we need to contact you? 0-1-9-0-1. Yep. 2-1-8-9-6-8. Okay. What would you like to order? A special chow mein. Yep, but no prawns? Okay. Black bean beef. Uh-huh. Two bags of chips. Yep. A portion of chicken balls. What sauce would you like with the chicken balls? We do barbecue, curry or sweet- and-sour. Sweet-and-sour sauce. Sure. Anything else with your order? No? That’s it? Th at’ll be 17.20, plus the extra pound for delivery. So that’s 18.20 in total. Your order will arrive roughly in . . ."
I cup the handset with one hand and turn my head round to check the rustic wood-framed clock on the wall: ". . . half an hour to an hour’s time? Okay, thank you. Bye." As soon as I place the handset down on the receiver . . .
