I’m on a break. Even prisoners get out into the fresh air occasionally, otherwise how would they organise breakouts, play football against the Nazis, leak dirt out down their trouser legs (er, that last phrase needs a bit of work, might come back to it later) or do any of the other deeds without which the world of film would have fewer stories. So I have just a few minutes to relate this tale of what happened at the weekend.
It rained on Saturday evening. Serious rain, and coming from an Irish person that’s bad. The rain fell straight downward in painful, soup-like blobs. Think of the bit of Singin’ in the Rain where Gene Kelly stands underneath the broken drainpipe, and then be told that it was heavier than that.
Only the hardy would have ventured out to the pub on such a night. Only the foolhardy would have left the pub before the rain stopped. Only the fool would have left the pub with no umbrella.
Anyway, I was walking home from the pub through the rain with no umbrella when I could actually feel the water trickling into my pocket. I clenched my ipod in one hand and my mobile in the other, fearful of what the rain might do to them. When I got through the front door I deposited both on the hall table, then removed absolutely all my clothes (calm yourselves, girls) and stood under the shower, which, though it is a power shower, was not as heavy as the rain. When I came out I took all the wet clothes and deposited them on the floor in front of the washing machine, since it was running at the time.
Yesterday afternoon I was watching football when I realised that something was nagging at me. I had passed the hall table several times during the day and in my mind’s eye I could picture the ipod, my house key and my phone sitting there. I went to the hall and looked and, sure enough, there was no sign of my wallet.
I looked under the table, I looked beside the table and then, as you do, I looked on the table again. Then I looked in my coat pocket, though I never leave my wallet there. There was only one place left.
In my jeans, in the washing machine, I found my wallet. There was no money in it (that seems to be the default setting of my wallet these days), but there was my brand new monthly bus ticket, all 98 Euro worth, just waiting to begin its month’s work this morning. There was also my Pacemaker Identification Card, which is not, as you may have imagined, a sturdy indestructible plastic thing, but is essentially a folded up piece of cardboard with an awful lot of vital information about me written on it. In biro.
Luckily, though, we hadn’t actually turned the washing machine on. All we’d done was unload the previous wash, stick this lot in, and then left it there. After all, if we’d turned it on we’d just have had to empty it again later, and that’s too much work for a Sunday.
Just as well we’re lazy.