Pizza Girl part two 

By Diana the Valkyrie


I'm a pizza delivery girl, and I might be the only cockney in the
trade, the others having gone into the City and become stockbrokers,
bankers, and similar dishonourable professions. And if you don't
know cockney rhyming slang, here's a clue. A word like "fart"
is replaced by "Raspberry tart", which rhymes, and then you drop
the rhyming part so that's why you blow a raspberry. Not a lot of
people know that. Also Polari, and a bissel Yiddish. And if you
can't understand my words, this is me, not caring.

Come sun, come rain, the pizza must get through. This is England,
and rain is more common than sun. Maybe in Italy there's a lot of it,
but here the currant bun is just a bright patch behind the clouds,
most of the time, and we have thirty words for rain.

Of course, if you're in a jamjar, you stay dry. But the Pizzabike
offers no shelter from the elements. Rain, snow, sleet, hail -
everything falls on she who has no brolly, and you can't ride the
Pizzabike while holding an umbrella. Not enough hands.

Batman has The Joker, Superman has Lex Luthor. I have Eric, who
delivers for Neasden Barbecue Chicken, an establishment whose nosh
hygiene rating would be negative if they went down that far and
whose menu includes such delights as Vegan Chik'n Thighs, which
seem to be made of soy, tofu and optimism that the customer will
eat it with closed eyes.

Eric rides a 50cc motorbike, top speed 30 mph with a tail wind. I
ride an electric bike, with a speed limited to 15 mph unless it's
pedalled by Pizzagirl, in which case I can sail past Eric and leave
him in my dust.

But Eric doesn't play fair. He lies to the customer about the cost
of his culinary gratification, adds a couple of quid to the bill as
"delivery cost" and pockets the difference as his tip. And that's
an even worse crime than delivering a cold pizza. Needless to say
(but I'll say it anyway) I would never cheat that way. He's nothing
but a tea leaf.

So I'm humming along with a Baked Bean Pizza (some people love them)
in my insulated pannier when Eric zooms past with a clearance of
inches, and naturally I wobble a bit, then a bit more, lose control
of the Pizzabike and kiss the Old Kent. Not literally kiss, but
it's bad enough, and by the time I pick myself up he's vanished
into the distance.

Revenge is a dish best served brass monkeys, unlike pizza. So,
the next time I see Eric, I use my Pizzagirl power to step on the
pedals and catch up with him. I silently approach from behind,
and blast him with my compressed air powered horn, sounding at 130
decibels just like a 56 ton 18 wheel truck mere inches behind him.

He was suitably startled, swerved, wobbled, wobbled some more and
went down, making a very satisfactory scrunching sound as he hit the
deck. "Good morning, Eric," I called out merrily as I sailed past.

Karma soon caught up with me - it started raining. Cats and dogs. So
I reacted the way I always do - I got wet. But the pizza was safely
tucked away in my insulated pannier, and I was able to deliver it,
still hot. I stood there looking like a drowned kitten while the
customer fetched some bread, which wetness I believe contributed
to the handsome tip he gave me. Another contribution might have
been the way that my wet shirt clung to my thrupenny bits. I'll
take whatever I can get, except getting stiffed.

On my way back to the pizzeria, I passed Eric, who was sadly wheeling
his motorbike; the handlebars weren't pointing in the direction
that the wheel pointed, so the bike was unrideable. I took pity on
him, and hopped off the Pizzabike; I offered to fix it for him. "Go
ahead," he said, so I squeezed the front wheel between my Pizzagirl
thighs, grabbed the handlebars with my Pizzagirl gauntlets, and
gave a great heave, twisting it back into true. I looked back over
my shoulder to tell Eric the good news, but he's in the middle
distance, pedalling away on MY PIZZABIKE! "Hey," I shout, which
has as much effect as you might expect.

Eric is truly evil. I heard the sound of his evil cackle as he
sped off towards the horizon. I thought of running after him,
Pizzagirl could do that. But then how do I explain how a pizza
delivery girl can catch up with a speeding bicycle? "Curse you,
Eric," I said, but then realised that the answer was already in
my hands. I kicked his bike into life, and sped off Ericwards at
about twice his speed. And so I soon caught up with him, but that
left me with a bit of a problem. How do I get him off the Pizzabike
without damaging the bike?

"Fuck that," I thought, and overtook him, and as I went past,
I delivered a vicious sideways kick to his aris. That totally
unbalanced him and he keeled over, sliding a satisfying distance
on the wet gravelled frog.  It's a bit like being sanded with very
coarse grained emery paper. The Pizzabike suffered a bit too, but
a few scrapes of the panniers and handlebar can soon be remedied,
whereas Eric's encounter with the gravel would be a painful
reminder for some weeks to come that you don't mess with a pizza
delivery girl.


Read the rest of the story on https://www.amysconquest.com