'Yes, I did. Forty-five minutes ago.'

'Oh, yeah, he's just around the corner ...'

'No, he's not!' I say. 'If he was, he'd be here by now! It's 4.40am!

On a Sunday! How busy can you be at 4.40am on a Sunday?'

'Well ...'

'No! Not well! I am phoning merely as a courtesy to inform you that I am cancelling this cab, sir!'

Colin looks up at me. He looks strangely proud of me. I am happy.

'And what's more ...'I say, my fingers tingling with the electricity of the moment, 'I am cancelling ALL FUTURE CABS!'

Colin looks shocked. So do I. I have no idea where that came from. What future cabs? I have no future cabs booked! I have no account with these people! I don't even think they do accounts! And yet I feel ... powerful!

'Wait,' says the man. 'We can work this out!'

'NO!' I shout. 'You've had your chance! ALL FUTURE CABS ARE NOW CANCELLED!'

I slam the phone down. I am high on power. I have especially enjoyed the sweeping arm movements I've been employing when shouting 'CANCELLED!' I dial another number. Three minutes later there's a cab at my door.

'Night,' mutters Colin, stumbling into it, but I know what he means. He means: 'What madness have I witnessed here? Will things ever be the same in our world?'

Well, no, Colin, they will not. Because Colin has witnessed me taking charge. Taking control. Steering my own destiny! Why do I not complain more? I think to myself in the shower, hours later. I should definitely complain more! I'd never realised ... but complaining makes you happy.

It is the evening. My takeaway has arrived twenty minutes after the promised forty had expired. I sternly inform the delivery driver that he is to mention this to his superiors. The delivery driver looks at me with respect in his eyes. In me, he sees a man taking control. We nod silently at each other for a second and then I close the door.

My Chicken Madras is lukewarm and dry. The rice is oily. My poppadoms smashed and broken. I do my best to munch my way through it, before the rage is back. The indignant rage. I rise up!

'My Madras is dry, my rice is oily and my poppadoms are shattered!' I yell down the phone. 'Shattered like the hopes and dreams I had of a lovely curry!'

'Sir, I do apologise,' says the man. 'If...'

'No! There will be no "ifs" today! I want no refund from you! I want no replacements! I want simply to tell you that this was a bad curry, sir! A curry so bad -' I get ready to employ my sweeping arm gesture '- that I am CANCELLING ALL FUTURE CURRIES!'

'We will look after you!' says the man, desperately. 'If you ...'