Oh. Mon. Dieu. I have just accidentally pocket-called Ocado whilst feeding Blue the Smoke Bengal (whose mamma is away). So one of their delivery drivers now has a six-minute message from me, telling him what a gorgeous, meaty boy he is.
Cat Daddy, when I told him later: “Can’t you just delete it?”
Oh my. How glorious life would be if this were a thing. Poor, clueless Cat Daddy.
Him: “Did you say anything else, apart from “You gorgeous, meaty boy”?”
Me: “Not really. It was pretty much just that.”
Him: “What, for six minutes?”
Me: “FOR SIX MINUTES.”
Him: “…”
Me: “I want to die.”
Him, without looking up from his phone: “Maybe you should.”
Me: “…”
Him: “There’s no way I can reframe this for you.”
Me: “…”
If you’re not a UK resident, you may not be aware that every Ocado delivery driver has the same phone number (in our area, at least). And I don’t think we’ve ever had the same driver twice. So having no idea which driver will have picked up the message makes the already-excruciating situation even worse.
Could it be Karanjeet driving the Plum van? Christopher driving the Cherry van? Or someone else entirely? Since it probably wouldn’t do to ask each driver who turns up, “Are YOU the gorgeous, meaty boy?”, I don’t suppose we will ever know.
Anyway, whilst I agonise over what I can do to recover from this – even though I know the answer is probably nothing – we can never order from Ocado again. Or, at least, I will have to hide whilst Cat Daddy accepts the delivery.
This is what Louis Catorze would look like sneering at my stupidity – if he actually cared:
For more Catorzian capers, please visit http://louiscatorze.com
louiscatorze.com 
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