It was a desperate moment.
My phone was missing. I imagined it crushed beneath a car tyre in the carpark.I imagined I had dropped it as I left the car. As I walked towards my car to check, I watched a car barrelling in behind my car and I cringed openly.
But it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in or near my car. It wasn’t in fact in any of the places that I thought it might be.
I couldn’t phone myself because I didn’t have a phone to do it. And besides, the night before (or was it two?) I had put it on silent so it wouldn’t ring even if I could phone myself. I was beneath a rock and a hard place, but none so hard as where I imagined my best little palm buddy to be.
My heart palpitated and my imagination spiralled as I imagined lost friendships, lost contacts and a lost life.
I couldn’t phone anyone to tell them and even if I could, how would I know their number? The only number I know by memory is my own and my mothers and she rarely answers her mobile. I often wonder why she actually has one, given the fact that the only time I have seen her use it is in the heart ward of the hospital in front of a sign that says to turn off all mobile phones.
In desperation, I reached for the landline and phoned home. I later told my grand daughter I used a landline and she looked at me askance. I had to explain to her that in the old days, people had phones that sat on top of desks and the like and people dialled or punched in numbers. The phone was fixed to a wall sometimes too.
She seemed perplexed and confused. This, apparently, is something only seen in a museum (or at my mother’s house) in her modern world.
I decided to double check all the likely places. This time I thoroughly checked my handbag. I have several pockets and the like in there and it is my wish that the phone finds a permanent home in one of them for ease of answering. But no, most times an answered call is preceded by some frenzied fumbling among the old receipts and uneaten chewing gum.
And there it was, quietly nestled inside. My world reclaimed.
