Dimensional telecommunicational slippage
Oh TITS. I have lost my goddam cellyphone.
And apparently in the time it took me to realise it was lost (two days), the battery died, so that old where's-it-ringing trick isn't working.
And it's my business cellyphone. Well, I try not to publicise the number, but nonetheless it has been printed in two magazines (as well as on every invoice) and theoretically there could be dozens — dozens, I say — of eager customers wondering why I haven't returned their messages.
What kind of stoopid idiot loses their cellyphone in a rather small and fairly tidy (it's just been cleaned goddammit) flat? I know it's in here somewhere. I had it when my mum phoned on Easter morning. I didn't have it this morning. I haven't gone out in between those two times. Possibly not something I should admit so readily, but there it is.
Where is my bloody cellyphone?* I have hunted in and around the bed and bedside tables (I was in bed when my mum called). I have checked all my handbags and jacket pockets, even those I definitely haven't touched since Saturday. I have checked in the bloody pillowcases. I have checked in the deep and cavernous folds of the sofa (an exercise that yielded nothing, not so much as loose pennies, which I'm sure is against the cosmic laws of something or other). I have looked underneath every item of furniture in the whole damn flat.
No cellyphone.
You know when you look in a particular place, and the thing's not there, and five minutes later you look in the exact same place and there it is? A friend of mine calls this dimensional slippage. I believe in it fervently. I'm ready for my phone to slip back now please. Into this dimension I'm in. Please thank you.
Or maybe Jemima swallowed my phone, like Martin in Green Wing. I do hope not. That radioactive wossname can't be good for kitty digestion.
Seriously now. Coo-ee! Cellyphone! Come to mommy!
SERIOUSLY.
Almost instantaneous update: I HAVE FOUND MY CELLYPHONE! Dear little phone. How I missed you.
Apparently I had not checked every single jacket (there's one I forget qualifies as such, which was hiding in a drawer). Apparently, too, I did in fact leave the house on Sunday. Gosh. Mystery solved.
Now I must run away to fill my cellyphone with electrical love. And check messages.
_____
* Also, what on earth did I do to vent my frustrations before blogging? What a sad and dark time that was, to be sure.
7 comments:
Also, what on earth did I do to vent my frustrations before blogging? What a sad and dark time that was, to be sure.
You know it. Punchbags don't leave comments.
---X
Sure he does. ;)
Some people assert one can retrieve cellphone messages from a, you know. Regular phone.
Lies designed to raise one's spirits for a subsequent crushing, that's what I think. But you found yours so - never mind.
:-)
I have heard this assertion. But I strongly suspect I'd need access to my regular phone in order to figure out how to do this.
Anyway, it matters not. I have my phone, there weren't *that* many messages, and all is well.
In my very first meeting with the yuppie blacksmith girl I decided it was best not to argue with her - it is she of the Dimensional Slippage Theory, yes? - but am frankly amazed at how accurate the description is every time I see the theory in action.
Number of times I've lost something only to find it is just where I thought it was - and where I did in fact look in the first place - mindboggling.
Yuppie! In what universe is she a yuppie? I mean, even now that she's managing three staff and occasionally waxes her legs... I just don't see the yuppie. But yes. Tis she. And it is indeed best not to argue with her. Luckily for me, she believes (quite rightly) that I am always right, so we are in constant agreement!
Cellyphone? Oh, your mobile! :)
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