THANK YOU FOR CALLING

“Look,” said Dr Walid Mohammed “I’ve performed more of these than you’ve had hot dinners, and not one complication.”
“Ok, ok,” said Peter Davinchy. “But I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the crap service from that restaurant, so listen: I don’t want you lot here screwing things up even more.” Dr Mohammed could not decide whether the attitude was due to the patient’s pain, anger or simply because he was an ‘A’ grade arsehole.
“I’ve never had a complication. You’d be the first,” he repeated.
“Yeah. Right,” Davinchy replied. The consultation was over. The Doctor had already unstrangulated his hernia and pushed it partly back into place. Only a pressure bandage was holding it now. At 9am tomorrow he would open him up and position and attach the internal gauze. He would need to reduce the size of the hiatus in his lower abdomen. All men had them to allow the seminal vessel from the testicles to enter the abdominal cavity. Under pressure from the intestines or trauma they can split wider and wider and coiled chunks of gut can protrude. This one had started to go on the other side as well but the Doctor would not mention this until after the op. He knew this type of man. He would be demanding a double hernia operation, a non starter. It just wasn’t done and the Doctor could easily avoid the aggravation by just not mentioning it.
“You’re fine,” said the Doctor as he walked away from the bed. Part of him knew this comment would irritate the patient and he felt better for it. But it wasn’t the doc that really galled Davinchy, it was the restaurant.
In some ways it was the best meal he’d ever had, not least as it was so out of the blue. You never expect that much from a buffet. He didn’t. It’s canteen food usually. But firstly there were waiting staff so you never had to get up, and secondly there were three chef’s in the middle of it all, knocking it up fresh. At £85 a head, it was a bargain. He’d not eaten since breakfast so come midday he was starving and had kicked off of all things with a little pasta salad just to take the edge off. The abundance of roasted strips of red pepper and cream sauce in the salad had got his juices going. His friend Ben had been raving about the lunch buffet at the Tower Art’s Hotel for weeks. ‘T and A’ Ben called it, but then he was obsessed with sex. T and A: that’s ‘tits and arse’ in case you were wondering. Peter hadn’t seen his own appendage for years, not without the help of a mirror anyway and he didn’t use the hotel in ‘that way’. For him there were other compensations and food was most definitely one of them.
The place was an Aitkins diet wet dream. Davinchy worked through grilled king prawns, steak, broiled ham with onions, a pile of lamb chops and French fries. Food till the cows came home. He’d lost count. It just kept on coming. It was a kind of paradise. There was something about the feel of rich bloody juices trickling down the side of ones face that felt delicious. His body would sweat in response, his forehead, armpits and groin getting wetter with each mouthful. He was going to thank Ben for this discovery but that was before the agony had began.
“For the love of god,” he’d said later to Philomena. “There is absolutely no point in just splashing water on it. You’re just spreading the puke all over my carpet.” She was useless. She would have to go. And now here he was needing surgical intervention because of the incompetence of that restaurant. His lawyer would sort them out. Someone’s lawyer would. His own seemed not to understand the obvious case against them. The place had almost killed him for fuck sake. The Doctor had said as much.

Peter flipped his phone open and scrolled down the menu. His phone dialled and he hopped nimbly through the options at the other end till he was through to the matre de again.
“Davinchy,” he said.
“Ah yes. Mr Davinchy. I trust you are fully recovered? Would you like to place another booking?”
“No I fucking wouldn’t! I’m in hospital because of you, you prick. And don’t just hang up on me again you arsehole?”
“Thank you for calling. Goodbye,” cut in an automated voice at the other end before the line went dead. Davinchy narrowed his eyes and smiled a little.
“This,” he thought to himself, “is a war I am going to win.” And that’s how it was. He won his case against them. After all, he was the kind of man who always got what he wanted. Always got what he deserved.