It wasn’t long ago that I bought a new camera. It wasn’t long after that when I lost it. It’s either nestled in the woods below the Malvern hills, or trousered in some scrote’s pocket up top.
Entirely in keeping the Law so well espoused by Sod, it was ejected on the only descent post which I failed to check for continuing velcro encasement.
Frustrating as the loss certainly is, a new phenomenon it certainly is not. For ever me and my stuff have suffered geographical separation at an escalating rate of “oh shit not again“. The current trade deficit must run to thousands, with only marriage and occasional outbreaks of common sense to keep it below eye wateringly tragic.
I cannot – and dare not – catalogue the Generation Game carousel of carelessly abandoned chattels, but let’s run a whistle stop tour of the highlights; five pairs of Oakleys’, three sets of expensive prescription glasses, a library of books abandoned in all corners of the world, a bridegroom in the UK, a good friend in France*, a car and then nearly my life at Universal studios, myself a hundred times in the woods, expensive watches, cheap watches, other people’s watches, two pairs of shoes in one week, money, credit cards and my wedding ring.
Twice. In one week. That week being our honeymoon. Not possible to do something more dumb that that you may think? Try offering “Yeah sorry, but it doesn’t mean anything” in mitigation.
On reaching a million, I stopped counting lost car keys and although there’s a rumour my random redistribution of possessions is somehow less chaotic than previous years, this is analogous to an arsonist only setting fire to one building at a time.
I may lose less, but it is worth more. And while there’s a part of me somehow proud of such ineptitude, the bit with the wallet in it craves a solution, a system, some kind of magnetic personality into which I can orbit cherished things.
God I’ve tried. Systems, post it notes, the three-pocket-pat “spectacles, testicles, wallet”, not leaving the house with anything valuable. None of it works, this year I’ve lost both the kids at some point, and once properly abandoned the dog in a Forestry car park.
And it shouldn’t be hard really. I’m not the sharpest tool in the box, but I have clothes with pockets and bags with zips. Coping strategies include the tool wall in my workshop which was designed not for proud display of an extensive hammer collection, but to provide a fighting chance of locating the backup mallet once the first one has disappeared.
I have a theory and that is that none of this is my fault. Surprised? No, me neither. But let me hypothesise a little more. Last week my security pass was on a desk in a small room. At no point was the door opened**, no obvious thievery was at play, false floors and hidden compartments entirely failed to materialise.
But the pass still de-materialised. Gone. Not on the desk, not in my bag, not sucked into an air conditioning vent, not reduced to atoms by a passing death ray. No, just gone, away with the fairies, flipped into a different dimension, very possibly pining for the fjords.
Not even a man skilled in the art of being entirely flipping useless could manage that. So I give you the only possible answer, what we’re talking about here is nothing short of “THE ALUDA TRIANGLE“. Exactly like the famed Bermuda Triangle only not quite as big, not in the same place and with less planes in it. Otherwise, a spitter.
I shall just pause for a moment to bathe in your open mouthed amazement. Slap-Headed you shall be – as was I – when struck by the simplicity of the solution.
Somewhere in this shadowy void swirls all that has been lost, forgotten, discarded and abandoned. I fully expect to be re-united sometime when I am appropriately worthy and/or dead.
If it is – and I am every hopeful – the former, make your way to my virtual doorstep for some previously enjoyed items. They’ll be nearly new, barely used and of no use to me at all.
As even someone with six bicycles and only a single pair of legs can see that nineteen pairs of sunglasses, fourteen watches, five hundred and eleven socks and a four foot cuddly model of “Roger the Rabbit” is far too heavy a personal inventory.
* For two days. He found me eventually which considering that a) there were no mobile phones back in those days and b) I was not only in the wrong train station but the WRONG COUNTRY was a bloody outstanding effort. For which I rewarded him with a small Yorkshire sized beer.
** Even tho it was a very small room, too full of people operating hot electronics in the pursuit of some boredom challenge. Anyone opening that door would have been crushed by a few of us making a run for it.
