I had THE most frustrating evening ever last night. I lost my mobile ‘phone. As I rummaged furiously through my bag, through the maize of lipglosses, chewing gum wrappers, vitamins, food diary and the various notebooks I use in a vain attempt to organise my life, I was overcome by a serious sinking feeling of loss.
There followed a blood pressure raising hour and a half of stomping angrily up and down the high street, retracing my steps, accusing everyone in my path of stealing my beloved ‘phone. In my local Tesco, where the staff are of sub-average intelligence, never have any clue of what stock they have or even what day of the week it is, and are capable of little more than staring at you blankly, whatever the request: “Were you in here this evening?” Yes, of course I was, you idiotic twat: why else would I waste my time searching for my ‘phone in here otherwise? At my local tube station, where the staff deserve an award for pompous disorganisation, appalling customer service and utter incompetence (to be fair to them, though, this seems to be the ethos of London Underground in general), they were even more unhelpful. Did you know that if you lose your ‘phone and file a lost property complaint, they will REFUSE to look for it unless you can provide them with your sim card number. HOW CAN I GIVE THEM MY SIM CARD NUMBER? I HAVE LOST MY BLOODY PHONE!!! Oh, and they suggested mailing the lost property form: “you can hand it in at the station, but we might lose it. It’s a mess in here.”
This happens every time I meet a man I decide I am interested in: I lose my ‘phone, which obviously makes it difficult to obsessively check my messages every 2 minutes. The last time I was interested in someone, I dropped my ‘phone down the loo and had to cancel an entire afternoon of meetings so that I could replace it.
Thankfully, the incident ended happily, but not before I had thrown a huge, public hissy fit and practically threatened to kill the staff of London Underground. My ‘phone was on my bed, where I had carelessly tossed it when I returned home last night. I had tried calling it to see if I could hear it ringing (twelve times, to be precise), but as the dryer was on at the time and my ‘phone was on the silent-vibrate setting, I was unable to hear it.
So I am happily reunited with my lifeline: my mobile ‘phone. And Love Object - he of the Oscar-worthy, outstanding dating etiquette - has just called me for 20 min conversation (in between running around buying another company), and even asked me what colour the dress I'm wearing to my cousin's wedding tomorrow is!
There followed a blood pressure raising hour and a half of stomping angrily up and down the high street, retracing my steps, accusing everyone in my path of stealing my beloved ‘phone. In my local Tesco, where the staff are of sub-average intelligence, never have any clue of what stock they have or even what day of the week it is, and are capable of little more than staring at you blankly, whatever the request: “Were you in here this evening?” Yes, of course I was, you idiotic twat: why else would I waste my time searching for my ‘phone in here otherwise? At my local tube station, where the staff deserve an award for pompous disorganisation, appalling customer service and utter incompetence (to be fair to them, though, this seems to be the ethos of London Underground in general), they were even more unhelpful. Did you know that if you lose your ‘phone and file a lost property complaint, they will REFUSE to look for it unless you can provide them with your sim card number. HOW CAN I GIVE THEM MY SIM CARD NUMBER? I HAVE LOST MY BLOODY PHONE!!! Oh, and they suggested mailing the lost property form: “you can hand it in at the station, but we might lose it. It’s a mess in here.”
This happens every time I meet a man I decide I am interested in: I lose my ‘phone, which obviously makes it difficult to obsessively check my messages every 2 minutes. The last time I was interested in someone, I dropped my ‘phone down the loo and had to cancel an entire afternoon of meetings so that I could replace it.
Thankfully, the incident ended happily, but not before I had thrown a huge, public hissy fit and practically threatened to kill the staff of London Underground. My ‘phone was on my bed, where I had carelessly tossed it when I returned home last night. I had tried calling it to see if I could hear it ringing (twelve times, to be precise), but as the dryer was on at the time and my ‘phone was on the silent-vibrate setting, I was unable to hear it.
So I am happily reunited with my lifeline: my mobile ‘phone. And Love Object - he of the Oscar-worthy, outstanding dating etiquette - has just called me for 20 min conversation (in between running around buying another company), and even asked me what colour the dress I'm wearing to my cousin's wedding tomorrow is!
I love my lovely 'phone.
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