Monday, 20th June 2005.

On Friday evening, we ended our erstwhile embargo of Domino Pizza. You may remember the argument I had with them over a year ago - getting into a scrap with the Abingon branch, which refused to deliver to Sutton Courtenay (despite their entry in the Thompson directory insisting that our postcode was in their delivery range). I also went to Didcot, who similarly refused to help. Eventually, I contacted head office, and received this response:

"All of our stores have designated delivery areas, which are based on the time it would take the driver to safely reach the address. I am sure you will appreciate that the safety of our drivers is paramount. At Domino's we do believe in customer service and our aim is to deliver a fresh, hot and tasty pizza within half an hour of receiving an order. The operation of a store has been set up to individually make pizzas within 22 - 24 minutes, which leaves 6 - 8 minutes to deliver. If we were to ask the driver to travel further than the 6 - 8 minute drive time, the pressure would be on them to drive faster and therefore potentially put themselves at risk.

I hope you understand that we would very much like to deliver to everyone but this is just not possible."

As far as the standard of excuses goes, this is pitiful. It's mathematically sound, but doesn't take into account the fact that whenever you ring Domino's for an order they generally tell you that it will be at least forty-five minutes anyway - so to say that delivering to our postcode is going to tack on an extra minute or two to the delivery time just doesn't cut it. All they'd have to do would be to tell us over the phone that it's going to take just a little longer, and that would be quite satisfactory. This, of course, would mean assuming a modicum of intelligence and forward planning on the part of the staff there, and as I found out on Friday, that's a dangerous assumption to make.

The simple truth is that Domino do great pizzas, and as it was getting late when we left the cinema and neither of us particularly wanted to cook, a takeaway seemed like a viable alternative. The nearest Pizza Hut and Pizza Express are both some distance away, which leaves two options: either we pay another visit to the high-as-a-kite manager of Pizza 2 Go (the Bill Bailey lookalike with the limbo-dancing caterpillar eyebrows), or I swallow my pride and we visit Domino's. The prospect of eating a dodgy Farmhouse and remaining completely hyper for the rest of the evening (which is what happened last time) was less than appealing, so Domino's won out.

It was pushing nine p.m. when I pulled up outside the Vauxhall exchange in the centre of Abingdon. The sun cast a warm glow over the town, as boy racers pelted up and down Ock Street in modified Novas ,and clubbers in killer heels and obscene skirts descended on the bars and pubs. We wandered up the road and in through the door, where five or six staff lingered behind the counter. None of them appeared to be doing very much. Em and I examined the menus and then I ordered, and was told that it would take "ten to fifteen minutes. Can I take a name, please?"

"Baldock," I replied, spelling it. The problem with a name like mine is that very few people outside Kent and Sussex - from where the clan originates - know how to spell the word. (The obvious exception is Hertfordshire, home to the market town of Baldock, which I'm told has the widest main street in England). Over the years I've had to put up with all manner of deviations from people who don't hear it properly - Baldrick, Baldick, Baldcock, Ballcock...and, on one memorable occasion, the snickering sales manager in my last job forwarded me a call from a Slough car services rep who wanted to speak to James Bollock. I never lived it down.

I know that Emily has never been overly happy with having to go from a name that's pretty difficult to get wrong (you just tell them "Knight with a K" and Bob's your uncle) to a relatively obscure one, at least in these parts. I gave her the option of keeping her maiden name when we married, but she still wanted to be Mrs Baldock. This helps reinforce the context of matrimonial unity but it doesn't do much when you're trying to sort out insurance with some chap in India who can barely speak English. So you spell the name, and everyone's happy. Or so you'd think. Minutes ticked by - the two of us wandered up the road, reading the postcard ads in the newsagent window, before returning to Domino's and flicking through the local newspaper. I read about the local MP while Emily looked wistfully at the hideously overpriced houses. Various parties trooped in and out, picking up garlic bread and dessert.

Eventually, at quarter past nine, I strolled over to the counter - the staff were still milling around, still not appearing to be doing very much. The counter girl had just called out for a Paul, who hadn't showed. I glanced on the rack: there was one large pizza box there.

"Are you being served?" she asked me, in a manner that indicated she'd rather not have to do it herself.
"I was seen to over quarter of an hour ago," I said. "They said about ten to fifteen minutes. I think that one might be mine, though."
"What was the name?"
"Well, I gave the name Baldock - and I spelt it. You just called out for a 'Paul' who doesn't seem to be here. Is it a Texas Barbecue?"
"So you're not Paul, then?"
"Well, no, but - "
"Then it isn't yours, is it?"
"I'm saying it might be, though, because -"
"Yes, but you're not Paul."
"Yes, but the name might be wrong - "
"Listen," she said, in the sort of voice you use to address thick, irritable schoolchildren. "If it's not your name on the side then it's not your pizza."
"I'm just saying that I think you might have the wrong name. Is it a large Texas Barbecue?"
"Just a moment," she said, turning to one of the other staff with a theatrical sigh. "Will," she said. "Which one was Paul?"
Will pointed at me. The girl handed over the large square box and we were on our way.

It was good pizza, which almost made up for the whole experience. But next time I'm using my Christian name.