Early in the day I must drive twenty miles out of my way because our pickers forgot the chutney yesterday for the chef at a posh country hotel who is doing a wedding feast later this morning. All of my other customers must wait.
Except one. He would have been the last of the day but I will now drive past his deli and he is already in there. When I nip in with his box, four hours early, he is at first delighted and then utterly crestfallen. Our pickers have sent provolone dolce, an innocuous white cheese, instead of dolcelatte, a strong and salty blue cheese. He has twenty four cheese boards to arrange for someone else’s wedding. I rack my brains and then drive thirty miles to a friendly wholesaler who very kindly lends me the right cheese, and back again. All of my other customers must wait.
Eventually, when I get back in to the yard two hours late and slump over the wheel before I begin to re-arrange the paperwork, there is a movement at the periphery of my vision and I look up see my rosy-cheeked manager giving me a cheery wave as he shoots off for a fortnight’s holiday. Grrr, just you wait until my psychiatrist hears about this.