In summer this is a lovely job. Who’d want to be stuck in an office then? But on a freezing winter’s night it’s less lovely. There are no Deliveroo offices to sit in. Instead there’s a muster point, which means some benches by the bus station. It’s where we wait, shivering, for an order.
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Dmitry, the mad Russian, is unimpressed by my thermals, scarf and gloves. He’s in cycling top and lycra longs. “This is not cold,” he says. “St. Petersburg, now, minus 25 normal. That is cold.” To warm up I use the toilet in the cafe opposite. I buy a coffee in return. I can see a vicious circle here.
I get an order. It’s an Italian restaurant known for their disorganisation. No cultural stereotypes though: the staff are eastern European. Orders should be ready for pickup when we arrive, but this lot often keep us waiting 20 minutes.
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As expected, they say it’ll be a while. Normally this is a pain — late orders count against us all — but tonight I’m grateful; I can wait inside and thaw out.
They apologise and bring me a coffee. And another. Eventually my order is ready. I recognise the address: a student house. Presumably botany students, judging by the plant life cultivated inside. There’s always a sweet, smoky smell here and they often order chocolate-based desserts late at night.
I arrive with the pizzas, 20 minutes late. The lights are on, but there’s no answer. Now all that coffee is kicking in and I need a loo.
The harsh reality of tips
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