Ding.
Ding Dong.
I really don’t think this is helping, but you never know.
How about, Bing!
Okay, concentrate. Here it is.
Rrrrrring.
Nope.
What’s with you people?
If I wanted you to come at 11:30 I would have said so.
Oh, says here 9:00. That must mean 10:30, obviously. If we show up before 10, we’ll look pathetic, desperate. If he wanted us there by 9:30, he would have said 8. 8? That’s a little early for a party, don’t you think? You’d have to have dinner at 5:30. What are we, six? I want time to come home, have a drink, maybe a nice meal. Then a quick wank, a shower, get dressed. No way I’m out the door before 9:30. We’ll get there around quarter to eleven. Perfect.
Perfect for who exactly? Whom exactly? Do you have any idea how long I’ve been ready? Over three hours ago, I picked up a gross of samosas for this hellish gathering. Do you even know what a gross is? A dozen dozen. A dozen dozen! That’s a lot of samosas. The guy at the Sultan of Samosa said so himself.
“That’s a lot of samosas,” he said.
He gave me three free pakoras. That’s the unspoken deal, I suppose. A gross of samosas gets you three pakoras. I ate the pakoras on the way home, and wiped the grease on my pants, which is why I’m wearing my third pants of the day. But these are pretty sweet pants. I probably should have started with them. A bit more snug than I remember but nothing serious.
But the fucking pakoras! I swear to God I could eat a gross of those. They’re even better with the coriander mint chutney but there’s no way I could wait until I got home to get started on them. You just try going five fucking blocks in a car filled with samosas and not have a little sample. Just try it. Go ahead.
Is anyone going to ring this fucking doorbell! It’s like fucking, oh, 8:50. Yeah, that’s a little early. But still, some people must have things to do tomorrow that mean they need to get to bed early. So they should be here early.
Oh crap, I hope the doorbell’s working. That’s likely the problem right there. Some dude’s probably hanging around out there wondering why I’m not answering. He’s all fidegety, wondering whether he’s got the right address, looking, no. No. Seems to be working. I guess the guy would have knocked at some point anyway, although you can’t be so sure. I hate knocking when I’m not sure I have the right address. “Sorry, wrong number” sounds pretty reasonable on the phone, but you can’t pull that shit live, at the door. So you peek in the windows, which is in no way better than knocking on the wrong door. Sorry for peeking in your window. I thought you were my co-worker. Oh yeah, that's much better. Much better.
