I can sometimes be careless, I know this. I don’t do it deliberately or maliciously, but generally either out of laziness or just plain not thinking. When I lost my phone earlier in the week it therefore shouldn’t have come as much of a surprise – in fact it’s probably a miracle that I’ve owned one for so long and haven’t lost it before.
I lost it on the day I took my step-father for a check-up at John Radcliff Hospital near Oxford following his heart surgery last year. As I set off I put my coat on and slipped my phone into the inside pocket. Somewhere in the back of my mind I’m sure I registered that this pocket was unsecured, but my natural tendency to assume ‘it’ll be fine’ overcame any inclination to do anything about it.
We spent around three hours in the hospital during which time we bounced from waiting room to waiting room; at no point did I give my phone a thought.
Finally we escaped. Having been given the all-clear by the surgeon we decided to stop at a pub on the way home for a celebratory meal. We chose The Inn for All Seasons on the main A40. A nice pub, though the food was a bit over-priced we thought.
We then set off for home and, for some reason, about a mile or two along the road I checked my pocket and found it distinctly devoid of phone. I frantically checked all my other pockets, but my phone count still came up as zero. Bugger. Back to the pub: not there either. Bugger again. There was no way I was going all the way back to Oxford, so I set off home, phoneless.
Losing my phone is not as big a trauma as it may be to some. My phone is an old non-smart Nokia, so not worth much. It is also pay as you go, so no-one can bankrupt me with call charges. Nonetheless, I am attached to it and losing all of my numbers is a major hassle. I decided that I would ring the hospital when I got home to see if it had turned up, but I wasn’t hopeful.
When I did get home, however, I had two voice messages on my answer machine. Someone had found my phone and had tried to track me down by contacting the last person I’d called (bizarrely Radio Gloucestershire) and the first name in my address book. Both of them then got in touch with me to tell me my phone had been found and handed in.
Good news: my phone’s been found. Bad news: it’s at John Radcliffe, a 3-hour round trip away!
The next day I rang the hospital. Yes, they had it. Would they, I asked more in hope than expectation, be able to post it back to me? Yes, no problem. Result! It turned up, intact, on Saturday morning.
So, I would therefore like to thank the chap who found it and tried so hard to get a message to me, the people who relayed that message, the lady on John Radcliff ECG reception for being so helpful and sending it back to me and, finally, the Post Office for not breaking it in transit.
Sometimes ‘it’ll be fine’ does work out – eventually!