For reasons not to be explored this minute: I hate bad manners. Or as an exasperated French would say: I ate it, I ate it, I ate it. And still be hungry.
Just now someone rings my door bell. No big deal. Thought it might be the Angel who’d forgotten his key. Except he wouldn’t do what this caller did: Press the bell repeatedly, insistently, impatiently at half past midnight without giving me a chance to answer the intercom within a reasonable time. I am up. But how could that little critter of a door bell ringer know that? There was no opening, like, say, “Sorry to disturb you so late”. Oh no. He wants to speak to “Glen”. Remember, this is all via my entry phone. I don’t know of any Glen. He wants to speak to Glen. Good job that I have the patience of the Pope himself. I asked him if he wanted me to spell it out slowly that there is no Glen, either in my flat or the building – to my knowledge.
Next gambit he wants to know which number flat I am in. I might be naive but I am not stupid. Luckily my spoken language does not in any way mirror what is going through my head. Did he say thank you, sorry or anything else one says to smooth the way of social intercourse? Don’t ask.
On the other hand – giving him the benefit of the doubt – he might have been on a quest to deliver a late night pizza. To someone called Glen. At the wrong address.