So I’m chatting to The Gardener on his hands-free thing in the car; he is in Taunton trying to park whilst also struggling to remember the details of the item I need him to buy and bring home tonight. (A new mop, if you really want to know; getting to Lakeland from where we live entails a round trip of almost 50 miles; he is in Taunton already, and loves a bit of shopping, even if it’s nothing more exciting than replacing the nasty bedraggled old mop that has Health Hazard stamped all over it.) Then I need to check if a message has been sent concerning M, his Youngest Daughter, who is staying with us this week, and tell him about it. But I can’t find my phone.
“Where’s my bliddy iPhone now? How do I manage to lose it all the time?” Scuttling round the house as I wail. These slim phones are a nuisance; bring back the huge brick-like things that we all used to be so impressed by – they didn’t get lost down the sides of armchairs, slither through holes in your pocket or swallowed by the dog. I lift papers, rummage in bags; the YD would simply tweak it out from under her bra strap.
Eventually The Gardener – who rang me – makes various suggestions as to its whereabouts, then says “I don’t know…. didn’t you ring me on it?” and we realise that yes, I did, and then he’d rung me back…. and that the lost iPhone is in fact clamped to my ear while we fuss and fret about its likely location. Then as I am typing all this – and I know you will have many similar stories – the landline phone rings, and it’s The Gardener again. “You rang me?” No I didn’t. “Oh. I must have pressed your number instead of M’s (YD).” Make sense of that one then. At some point today, he, YD and a new mop should arrive safely home. Maybe.