Wrong number #3

“Ah yes, good even­ing. Can I order for col­lec­tion? Thanks. I’d like one no.39, please — egg foo yung. One no.73 — the kung po chicken. Two 137’s — that’s the extra spe­cial fried rice with extra rice and the extra spe­cial, um, stuff. You know, the stuff I like on it? Oh, I’ve no idea. Abso­lutely no idea. Do you ever get the feel­ing that exist­ence is truly futile? I know I do. If it wasn’t for you at the Scaly Dragon Chinese Takeaway, I think I would lose the will to get up in the after­noon. Um, any­way, yes, one no.46 and a half. That’s the king kung fung yung with added mung. Easy on the kung, because I’m watch­ing my salt intake. No, really, I’m not tak­ing the piss, prom­ise. So, mmm, I fancy a treat. I want to spoil myself because no other fuck­ing sod does — yes, I said fuck­ing sod, do you have an issue with that? — so can I also have a banana frit­ter without the banana but with pine­apple rings? You could open a tin for me. Or I could bring in a tin of them. Yes, I’ll pop into Sainsbury’s on my way. What do you mean — unreas­on­able? I am not being unreas­on­able. No, really. I’m not wast­ing your time, I swear. It’s just that I like your voice so much. You always soothe and com­fort me after I fin­ish my weekly call to the Samar­it­ans. Please like me. Please. I’m des­per­ate. I adore look­ing into your flut­ter­ing ori­ental eyes over the formica counter as you twist and knot the top of my free prawn crack­ers. Did I men­tion that I am sick­en­ingly, gut-wrenchingly lonely and spend my nights watch­ing old repeats of 1970s TV sit­coms on UK Gold? Will you help me? Save me? I’m beg­ging you, because I really can’t go on spend­ing this much on Chinese food. Did you get the mes­sage I wrote to you on the menu last week? Oh, but you must have seen it, you must! I scratched it in brute force biro next to the House Spe­cials, with love hearts and all that shit, declar­ing that I wanted to run away with you and live in Buddhist tran­quil­ity in China … what do you mean you’re not from China? Wol­ver­hamp­ton? I sup­pose I can work with that; I hear it’s nice there, after all, and there must be Buddhists in Wol­ver­hamp­ton too. Her father? What? Speak up and stop mum­bling, damn you. You’re her father? Oh. Right. No, really, I’m bey­ond embar­rass­ment. I’ve died and come back immune, many times. So. Can I just have a sweet and sour chicken and boiled rice, then? I’ll be there in ten. Is your daugh­ter there too? At uni­ver­sity? Shame. Well, put the kettle on and we can have a llttle nat­ter when I get there. Do you like Hobnobs?”