This evening the doorbell rang, just as I was finishing up making a plate of crackers with cheese as a snack. I went to the door to find a young chap wearing a crash helmet and holding out a huge pizza box, even though I know I did not order anything.

I am used to this sort of thing, even though I have never used any of those food delivery companies that flood our streets with scooters and illegal electric motorbikes. We do sometimes get pizza delivered, but only from a local place that does their own deliveries. Usually when we get these unexpected callers it is because they have the right house number, but the wrong road. The conversation is usually

“I haven’t ordered anything”
“This is number 11 isn’t it?”
“Yes”
“Then this is the right address”
“What road did you want?”
“[next road along]”
“Ah. This is [this road] you want the next one”

This time it was a bit different. He checked his phone, showed me the address and it was my address. Right house number, right road, even the right postcode. I reassured him that I hadn’t ordered anything and he looked forlorn. “What am I going to do with this then?” he asked. “Eat it?” I suggested.

“Are you sure you don’t want it? Free pizza?”

I was a bit tempted because it did smell good. But I had a plate of cheese and crackers all lined up. Also, I had eaten pizza for lunch. On top of that, I reckoned there was a very good chance that the pizza was a deep pan, which people seem to like for some unfathomable reason. I like my pizza thin and crispy. With a bit of charring round the crust ideally. And I would have felt a bit guilty about eating somebody else’s pizza, even more so as I can’t manage a whole one and would have thrown half away.

I wonder what happened to it?