It’s a tough job, but someone has to do it. Somebody has to deliver your lukewarm pizza or kebab to your door, especially, if like myself, you are too lazy to drive half a mile to pick it up. Someone has to brave the cold and get on that motorbike, then zig-zag down every road, side-road and one–way street, past the “No entry” signs, onto the occasional pavement, through the odd red light or four to ensure that your food arrives at your door within the requisite half-hour.
That someone is the delivery boy (and it always seems to be a man, not a woman). On a cold, rainy night, when your stomach rumbles as loudly as the thunder outside, his face is like a beacon of hope. “Delivery” he says, and you will smile and gladly hand over all your fortunes for a warm slice of pizza or a special cheezywheezyburger with extra lard. As long as he is not driving on the same stretch of road as you, the delivery boy always brings a smile to your face. And he will never let you down- all you have to do is pick up the phone.
If the food is on time or early, it is customary to tip the delivery boy, even if a delivery charge is included. You could, if you like, say “No keep it all; save it for some driving lessons”.
Some nice, polite pizza boys will try and give you exact change and will say thank you if you tell them not to bother with the last twenty cents. Others will not give you a penny back and you will need to ask for your seventy-five cents. They might even say “Oh, I thought it was a tip.” In these cases, the only suitable way to tip them is with great force out of your home and into the street.
I am joking, of course. I have immense respect for delivery boys, although, as you will have realised, not for the way they drive. They are indispensable, after all in today’s couch potato society, since people have become too bored to cook and too lazy to go out and get something. Similarly, we’d rather watch our football on TV and shout at the footballers in the comfort of our own living room than go to the ground and do it with other fans. We pay good money to watch pay-per-view on television because going to the cinema is just too darn tiresome after a long day sitting in front of the computer and playing solitaire. We often read the news online rather than buy a paper, though I’m not recommending that you do this, of course- the paper you are holding in your hands is so much nicer than a cold, blinding computer screen. And lighter to carry along with you, also.
So nowadays, if we want to get something to eat we will drag our tired, aching bodies to the little drawer where we randomly throw in all the take-away menus and choose one of the many options we have before we slowly press the buttons on our phone with fingers tired from all the mouse-clicking they have been subjected to all day.
Then we make our order and have to drag ourselves into the kitchen to get our knives and forks. Half an hour later, the order arrives and we get up and open the door to be greeted by a man holding a bag or a box and a little slip of paper. Our special doner kebab, special pizza or special burgers have arrived.
No more slaving in the kitchen, getting those pots and pans, grilling, boiling, frying, toasting, spreading butter and jam on bread. For a fiver per person, all you’ll have to do is wash the dishes (or get someone to wash them for you).
Delivery boys play a very important role in today’s society, though few of them would see their job as anything more of a stepping-stone or a temporary thing to earn some spending cash. Some are trying to get through college, hoping to be employed one day in a job where they will not have to brave the elements in hope of a tip. Some may even become accountants, technicians, administrators or even managers, though not, I hope, driving instructors.
But, thankfully, there will always be more delivery boys coming through the ranks (and sadly they will always zig-zag past me a hundred yards before the intersection). Now where did I put that pizza menu?
back to the Limassol Dispatch homepage