Confessions of a Reluctant Recessionista

the garage for a service. The obvious thing to do would, of course, be to call a cab, but since Rupert didn’t even allow us to pay for couriered mail, I wasn’t entirely sure I could count on getting the cost reimbursed. And I was wary of spending without permission given the whole office makeover affair. Starting to get desperate, I was pondering the logistics of trying to transport a case of wine across south London on public transport when I noticed Andrei, the Deli Delivery man across the road, shutting up shop. Andrei the Deli Delivery man has a Deli Delivery bicycle, a bicycle which has a little trailer attached to the back in which he stashes his Deli goods for delivery.
    I ran downstairs.
    ‘Andrei!’ I yelled at him across the traffic. ‘I need to borrow your bicycle.’
    I hurried across the road, narrowly avoiding getting flattened by a taxi. ‘It’s an emergency,’ I panted. Andrei peered at me suspiciously.
    ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘Are you hurt? Do you need to go to hospital?’
    ‘Not that sort of emergency. It’s a work emergency. I need to deliver a case of wine to south London by nine o’clock.’
    There followed a short period of haggling over what the cost of borrowing his bicycle should be. We settled on one bottle of Vintage Organics claret and another of Pinot Grigio.
    ‘My wife likes it,’ he explained, as though requesting Pinot Grigio was something to be ashamed of.
    The deal done, I hopped onto the bike, which proved heavier and more difficult to manoeuvre than I’d expected, and started pedalling south.
    Halfway there I remembered that I was, at this very moment, supposed to be at Jake’s having dinner. I pulled over onto the pavement (thankful to have a quick rest) and dialled his number.
    ‘You’re not going to believe where I am at the moment,’ I panted at him when he answered.
    ‘Well, I take it since you’re phoning me that you’re not currently standing on my doorstep.’
    ‘I’m not, I’m really sorry—’
    ‘You’re not coming?’ he interrupted tersely just as I was about to launch into a witty and amusing explanation of my current predicament.
    ‘I’m really, really sorry, Jake. It’s a work crisis—’
    ‘Fine. See you when I see you then,’ he said and hung up.
    Oh, bugger. I got back on the bike and resumed pedalling.
    The good news was that, amazingly enough, I managed to make it to the delivery company and across to Mr Eames’s place by nine fifteen. I arrived, hot, sweaty and dishevelled, with his two cases ofwine and half a case of champagne by way of an apology for the inconvenience. He was not just mollified, he seemed absolutely delighted, if slightly alarmed by my appearance.
    ‘You’re the girl I spoke to on the phone?’ he asked as I lugged the second case of wine up the steps to his front door.
    ‘That’s right,’ I huffed. ‘I’m really sorry, but there was some sort of cock-up at our delivery company.’ I wondered whether cock-up constituted bad language. ‘So sorry for the inconvenience.’
    ‘Well. I must say I didn’t expect you to come here personally. Thanks very much. It really is very good of you.’
    ‘All part of the service,’ I said, smiling sweetly. Never mind the fact that you probably just got me dumped , I thought. Just so long as your party goes well .
    By the time I’d cycled, slowly and wearily, back to Borough, where I chained the bicycle to the railings outside the Deli Delivery shop, and taken the tube back home it was after eleven. I sent Jake a text apologising once again and then went to bed. I fell asleep almost instantly. I dreamed that I was at the office, trying to compile an order for a client, but even though I had found all the right wines to fill the case there always seemed to be one missing.
    There were no messages on my phone when I woke the next morning. I left for work with a heavy heart, the first time I’d felt that way in ages. I slouched intothe office feeling miserable, trying to think of ways I could make it up to him. All the ideas I had come up with by the time I reached the office involved copious quantities of champagne and very expensive lingerie, neither of which I could really afford right now. Plus, I had the feeling that the sort of tricks that worked on Dan might not be so successful with Jake. I might have to be more creative in future. I consulted Less is More! , which sadly didn’t have a chapter on cheap and innovative ways to placate an irate