The Brief

It was on a Sunday afternoon that I first heard of my mission.  I was sat outside The Swan Hotel in Stafford sipping a pint of EPA when L pulled me to one side.
"There's something I need to tell you."  She muttered, eyeing our fellow patrons with suspicion.  I leant in.
"What?"
"I want you to be in charge of the Hen Do - I'm going to have it in London.  But I don't want any L plates, or any of that shit."
My hear sank.
"No strippers?"

"No, No strippers, Shelly."  She hesitated.  "Can I trust you with this?"
"Yes, of course!"  I spluttered, the pain of my dented pride surpassing the feeling of mild disappointment.
"What I want, though, is pizza.  Good pizza."  She added.

I understood completely.  You see, L is quarter Italian.  And she is about to marry an Italian Italian.  "Good pizza" to her is not what it is to you or I - I can quite happily chow down a Pepperoni Passion from Dominoes and feel satisfied.  No, what we were talking about was the real deal:  fresh buffalo mozzarella and a paper thin base, cooked to perfection in a wood fired oven.  I swallowed awkwardly, my throat suddenly dry.  I took a sip of my beer.
"No problem."
"Good."  She sat back in her chair and lit a cigarette before turning her attention back to the rest of our party.  I let the conversation wash over me as I digested the enormity of the task ahead of me.  I knew that I couldn't screw this up, and I knew that there was only one way that I could fulfill this brief.
I was going to have to eat pizza.  A lot of pizza.