Just to recap some of the ways I have parted company with mobile phones over the years.
There was the time I left one down the back of a cinema seat during a woeful Uma Thurman movie that wasn't worth the price of the ticket. It was then stolen by a fellow cinema-goer, obviously hoping to recoup something from a lost afternoon. There was also the moment when, smothered with a cold, I dropped one into a hot whiskey by my bed. Hot whiskeys are not medicinal for mobiles, it turns out. Then there was the day I dropped one down the toilet. Thankfully, the phone didn't disappear around the U-bend, but when it floated back to the surface it was dead. To conclude this litany of loss and destruction I'll just say there was a period when I would dig around in my bag for the phone and be more surprised to find it than not.
The other day it was gone again. I've got into the habit lately of checking behind me when I leave a place. In this way I've started to minimise the snail trail of life debris I seem to spew. I especially check the taxis I am vacating because that's the number-one place I've left my phone in the past. This check-before-you-go tactic has meant I've mislaid fewer items recently. Foolishly, I really thought I'd left those lost days behind me.
I know I checked that taxi last week. Gave the back seat the once over. When I got home, though, the phone wasn't there. The first step in the drill, as any serial mobile-phone loser will know, is to phone the phone. It rang, which is always a hopeful sign. A young man answered. "Who's this?" he asked. "My name is Róisín. I think you have my phone." "Ah, yeah, I do," said the gentleman, who sounded uncannily like Rats from Paths to Freedom, which made me warm to him immediately.
"My name is Alan. Found it down the back of a taxi, so I did." "Oh, great," said I. "Just let me know where you are and I will come to pick it up." "Ah, no," said he. "You see, I'm on a train, going down the country, and I won't be back until tomorrow. I can meet you tomorrow if you like." "Fine," said I, wondering why Alan didn't just give the phone to the taxi driver but not saying that, in case I antagonised him and he decided to throw the phone out of the train window.
"C'mere to me," said Alan. "How come you have Louis Walsh's number on your phone? I think I will give him a ring for the laugh." "Ho, ho, ho," said I, panicking slightly now, which gave rise to this unseasonal Santa Claus impression. "Please don't do that, Alan. But thanks for minding my phone. I'll call you tomorrow."
Alan seemed like a nice fellow. A bit of a joker, sure, but at least my phone was safe. An hour later I got a call from my sister-in-law. She had texted me to say she couldn't make a meeting we'd planned, and the reply went something like: "That's it, you wagon. We are finished." Alan was clearly having lots of fun with my phone.
The next day, as arranged, I rang Alan. He was in Portarlington, in Co Laois, visiting his family. "The thing is, Róisín," he said, "I don't honestly know if I'll be back in Dublin today. I've had a few drinks, if you know what I mean." I did. It was 3pm. I began to want my phone more earnestly. "Alan, will you be back in Dublin tomorrow?" said I, keeping my voice even. "C'mere to me; I'm not very reliable, really, Róisín." At least he was honest.
Drastic measures were called for. I found a taxi company in Portarlington (thank you, J&S Cabs) that had someone going up to Dublin later that day. For a fee they would pick the phone up from Alan and drop it to me in the city centre later that evening. I rang Alan to tell him. "Nice one," he said. "By the way, I keep trying, but I can't get that Louis Walsh on the phone. He must be very busy." "Ho," said I, "ho."
I was with my mother during these exchanges, all of which had taken place on her mobile. She was worn out by the Alan phone saga and wanted to go home. Unfortunately, we were sidelined by some soup-testers on Grafton Street, who persuaded us to taste some instant soups and say whether we liked, moderately liked or didn't like them. When we eventually reached her apartment I discovered I'd left her mobile phone in the soup-tasting place. Her response is unprintable.
We managed to recover her phone, and later that night a white stretch limo pulled up outside the Central Bank of Ireland. The driver handed me my mobile. I immediately scanned the recently dialled numbers. Alan had tried to get in touch with Maeve Higgins from Naked Camera, RTÉ's Katriona McFadden and, several times, Louis Walsh. I may finally be cured of my acute mobile-phone-loss syndrome. So c'mere to me; thanks, Alan. roisiningle@irish-times.ie