I didn’t expect to be writing this post so soon, but it was only a matter of time, after two years in rural Yorkshire, before I became addicted to really good takeaways. During the four million lockdowns of the last two years, I’ve listened enviously to the ranks of those bemoaning their Deliveroo addiction, and optimistically checked my postcode every fortnight or so, hoping that I too could have the luxury of bankrupting myself with sushi and burgers.
“We’re not there yet,” Deliveroo apologised every time I checked, “but we’re working on it!” Ah, come off it. You’ll NEVER be there. And what would be the point? Every delivery driver I’ve ever had has got woefully lost. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle. I end up jumping up and down frantically at the end of the driveway, desperately semaphoring to a van a quarter of a mile away, phone clamped to my ear. “Yeah, no, if you keep going up that road for a bit longer, four minutes or so, then we’re on the left… yeah, if you look through the trees - right, can you see a church? Okay, you’ve gone past us… yeah, I’m waving, I think I can see you?” So now I’ve got a fancy Oxford postcode, the fact that I could, if I so wished, have a nutella and strawberry crêpe, a Chelsea bun, truffle chips, a barbacoa burrito, and eighteen bottles of Malbec delivered to my door, all at the same time, no questions asked and no real human contact necessary, blows my tiny provincial mind. Within about ten days I ordered a Parma ham and fennel seed sourdough pizza, a ruby chocolate and raspberry croffle with stracciatella gelato; a brisket burger with tobacco crispy onions; and nduja macaroni cheese. I think the real low point arrived when I ordered a single ham and Emmental baguette for lunch. Twelve pounds, and it came from two and a half miles away. Financially and environmentally the most expensive sandwich ever. Another low point arrived later that week when I placed two Deliveroo orders in a single evening. Despite my ferocious Deliveroo-ing I have found time to leave my flat occasionally. Reader, I went to London. LONDON! See my Instagram for proof. Ate steak tartare for breakfast, ordered lobster rolls at midnight, and had a terrific time bumping into people on the Underground and not apologising, like a real local. And actual real DPhil work continues to move along at a quite breathtaking pace (about fifteen thousand words a fortnight, at the moment - if all of those words were good my entire thesis would be done in mere months). All being well I’ll be speaking at my first conference in just under two weeks. Two weeks!? Blimey. Think I’d better order another croffle.
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The official website of Yorkshire-made, Oxford-based writer Isabel Parkinson. Want fewer words and more pics? Follow me on Instagram!
(Header Photo: Radcliffe Camera, Oxford - Isabel Parkinson 2016)
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