A mobile phone and an angel
I had a mobile phone for about three weeks and lost it. My latest theory is that it has been eaten. The bottom drawer of the chest of drawers in our bedroom is the prime suspect, but I have been unable to persuade it to disgorge its treasure, and I don’t really care enough to fork out for a replacement: having to remember where it was all the time became irksome, and I felt my world shrink rather than expand as my whole attention became channelled through the annoyingly small buttons, the ? texts and voicemails. Goodness knows what would happen if I had one of those palmtop, blackberry Ipad things. My obsessions would rule me. I take great pleasure in advising the kindly newsagent that “No, I don’t need a top-up, thank you. I don’t have a mobile phone.” He smiles and agrees, “That must be a relief”. It is.
A couple of days ago, I realised that my daughter’s mobile phone was lost. We looked for it everywhere, in the process clearing out our entire home and having a painless tidy up. Seline was even to be seen on the back lawn, searching over the grass and round the block for it. No joy. The small hand-held device on which she plays games and texts her friends was no-where to be found. I was unsure whether to be sad, or grateful that we didn’t discover it soaked and short circuited, or shattered beyond recognition under the wheels of a car. In any case I suggested that she ask her angels to help her find it. She rolled her eyes and carried on searching, pulling out her bed to look beneath it.
Unaccountably cheerful, I thought about it, and asked God to send me Seline’s phone. Recovering it would not only save about fifty pounds but also a journey into the centre of town and a confusing choice of several shops (“outlets” they call them these days) peopled by youthful assistants who talk very fast and don’t understand that I don’t understand what they are saying.
Having been woken early by a particularly enthusiastic blackbird, I drank the cup of barley coffee that my husband brought me. While I was sipping it gratefully, my daughter popped her head round the door, and asked, “Why do I have to have a bun (which I had lovingly filled with ham) for lunch?” So I offered to eat that for her while she made herself a “proper sandwich”. Wolfing down the delicious bun was no sacrifice for me, and completed breakfast in bed very nicely, thank you. I then waited for the family to depart before sinking gratefully under the sheets and going back to sleep. I am not sure why the prospect of holidays is so exhausting, but that is my excuse.
I was woken by the phone ringing loudly next to the bed. I prefer my old-fashioned, heavy appliance, which is reliably solid and stays where it is put. It is easy to dial telephone numbers on, too, which is helpful: they seem to get longer all the time. At the end of the line was the efficient voice of a woman PC advising me that a mobile phone had been handed in, if I would like to go and collect it? Yes, certainly, I croaked. I upped and dressed and had my second breakfast quickly, before setting off.
After taking a wrong turn, I arrived at police HQ and showed my ID. The desk staff checked some details – whose name was on the phone? Yes, my sister with the unusual name, Seline’s aunty was there. Within half an hour I was home again. It never occurred to me to ask how they knew to contact us, or to enquire who had handed it in, so that I might thank them. Their thoughtfulness was the answer to my prayers and will make my daughter smile this afternoon.
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February 25, 2014
What to wear?
Fran Macilvey choosing, clothes, fashion, Humour, shopping cerebral palsy 4 Comments
What to wear?
I am not your usual girlie shopper. I dread spending all day at the shops, browsing, though there is nothing I like more than yummy clothes and shoes. Because my days seem to pass so quickly, I find that I go clothes shopping about once every two years, so getting time for that is a big deal.
Yet on my day out being daring, nothing I try on is the right size, shape or colour. I seem to have missed the more generous, subtle mulberries and rich, dark blues that were the hallmarks of last season, according to a sales assistant who looks young enough to be my daughter and who struggles to be heard above the sound system. I lose myself in the chaos of a noisy disco, where all the latest trends are eye-wateringly pink or purple, and several sizes too small or too large. I have discovered – why me? – I am a size thirteen; or a size fifteen, which are nice and easy, in-the-middle nothing quite fits sizes. Ladies march confidently past with armfuls of delicious dresses, trousers and tops, while I content myself with a six pack of undies and a new jumper from the menswear section.
I do have my favourite shops which stock my favourite styles, where the chances of success are much higher, though my visits to them have to be carefully planned for when I have some real cash to spend. For a spontaneous day out “doing” the shops, I am most definitely not your girl. The odds are that I will find nothing that fits, “give” five pounds to a threatening, “Big Issue” seller who “forgets” to give me change and then have to pay for a taxi to take me home empty-handed because, after three hours of conspicuous non-expenditure I am simply too sore, tired and dispirited to wait forty minutes for the next bus. I’ve just seen one pulling away from the kerb about ten yards away, but there’s no chance of my running to catch it.
For a trip to one of the out-of-town shopping centres, we spend forty minutes in the car negotiating heavy traffic, with our daughter in the back seat asking, “Are we there yet” every minute or so; we cannot work out which cul-de-sac on this industrial estate will lead us to the one way system where there may be a junction that takes you to M & S….When we arrive, I remember I am wearing my reading glasses. I have to watch out for Seline – who moves as fast as a whippet through the crowds of coat hangers and slippery off-the-shoulder evening gowns and racks of clothes that cover the vast expanse of shop floor. My chance to acquire a new top or dress whizzes past me so fast that, before I have checked which isle I’m in, it has vanished. The world looks fuzzy and is moving too fast. Did someone turn up the speed of life and forget to tell me?
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