The Mystery of the Apparating Mobile Phone

What a palava. You think with it being a weekend, God would most certainly have given me a day off. Yesterday, I decided I would travel to Birmingham in the morning as it would be less of a headache (cheaper and quicker), or so I thought. This is not a moan about public transport dear Reader, ‘tis a moan about the current state of my incredulous ridiculousness.

After having living in my apartment for three months, on the morning in question, I struggled to lock the door as if I had troll hands. Both locks. I locked and unlocked the double-system mechanism three or four times over trying to decipher which leprechaun had stolen my brain during the night. Eventually I managed to secure the security, and hi ho hi ho off to out I go on my way to the train station. Thankfully not for work of course.

A short distance up the road after my daily bobbing along to Example and She Won’t Go Quietly (which is really quite apt now for me but not in the same way as the song theme which is still on iPod repeat because I love the lyrics so endlessly…) Anyway. I search myself for my phone with my bag on my shoulder and decrease my long marching leap-frog steps into a mild panic of chicken-patter. I reach inside my two jacket pockets, and pat my two back pockets on my jeans. Then I pat my two front pockets. And as a last resort now, I pat my two thigh pockets. Nada.

I publicly frisk myself once more just to be sure, by this time I have ceased skipping and I am rooted to the spot like a meercat sensing imminent danger. The phone is not on me. I search my bag. It is not in my bag. I deduce of course, it must be in my apartment and I return to said abode, and retrace all of my steps from the kitchen, lounge, bedroom, bathroom trying to remain as calm as a summer’s breeze. I discover nothing.

I am despairing at this point as it is a good ten-minute walk to the train station, I cannot miss this train, I have an appointment at 12:45pm which is practically unmissable. I can actually live without my phone, believe it or not: tried and tested: proven successful. But the despair persists since my bus pass, or m-ticket, is on my phone via an ‘app’ (N.B: this ‘app’ is not recommended as Arriva also fail with this service provision and delete the m-ticket each time an update-download is required). I have at least one weeks’ validity on this ticket however, I need this bus pass. I am surely not about to lose any further expenditure, were this a commendable talent, I would be Queen. However, losing cash frivolously is, by far, the worst characteristic to possess as a human being in the continuing downturn of economy the history of the universe has ever seen, or that which has been documented…

I search EVERYWHERE. Even under and behind my lovely chocolate leather ottoman (which is more expensive than my sofa – I did advise you I am astoundingly good at spendthrifting but I am no Nora-bird although right now, its gracious presence is hardly comforting). I have now run out of places to turn upside-down-inside-out. I have rubbed out and retraced my steps fifty thousand times and my mind is numb with solutions. I sit, dejected, on the carpet, in amongst the contents of my travel bag having emptied and checking it a million times, each time knowing I will not find it, but check anyway.

Where on earth could it have disappeared to? My worst nightmare is to have nonchalantly gifted the phone to refuse bags that I carelessly flicked into the giant wheely-bin when I departed the apartment earlier. But surely I was not so stupid as to accidentally do that to myself? The longer I sat, the deeper I thought, the more I racked my memory, the quicker time passed, the higher the outcome of missing my train. The unlikelihood of finding my phone was increasing at a melodramatic rate.

The bin was looking to be the only solution. There was no way in the universe I was going to rummage through scummy leftovers and rotting vegetables on this bright Saturday morning. Lamenting over the lost cash on the travel pass, and the cost of replacing the handset since I have no insurance, I had an epiphany. A bit like an apple dropping on a head.

Aha! I remembered, I was being super dyslexic with the locking mechanisms, perhaps the phone is there. I jump off the carpet and like a criminal, mooch over to my door and carefully open it afraid to see absolutely nothing. I peek around the edge and there on the floor, as if sunbathing in artificial light, my phone lies naked staring at me blankly: as innocent as a lost button. I scream with delight and moreso at my stupidity.

After packing my bag like a mad hare in a dash to a tea-party, I made it to the train station with three minutes to spare before departure and I hula-hoop into my seat with happiness.

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