Sunday, December 13, 2009

Phones can't scuba.

On Friday night I drowned my phone. Again. At least the last time I was aided by a sixteen? month-old who perceptively spotted that I carried a litre of water in my handbag and surely life would be a little more fun with added damp. I wasn't thrilled, and neither was his mom; two phones with one water bottle is a little precocious, I feel! Still, I fell back on my husband's phone (forcing him to downgrade to a chunky GREEN flip phone aka the Kermit bling phone) and we all continued along.

So, hadn't I learnt my lesson? Well, yes, I'm much better at restricting access to my handbag. But that wasn't the problem this time.

Scenario: Friday night.

Driving into the city to meet friend and her work colleague (aka B & C). B calls. I give her an ETA plus parking time. That's fine, they're doing some Christmas shopping, no drama.

Find a park approximately halfway across city. Visit 7-11 to facilitate gold coins for meter. Finally, car is legally parked and can begin to hike.

Text B to update her on status. Tuck phone into back pocket awaiting reply. Realise am desperate for toilet (drained L bottle of water so would not have to lug it about but could attempt semblance of hydration) and decide to stop at QV on way to city centre.

Yep, I've forgotten that my phone is still in the back pocket of my jeans. So much so that as I gratefully yank them down in the privacy of a toilet cubicle, I freeze upon hearing a certain clatter. This is the bowel-freezing terror that can only be experienced when you hear the clatter of an electronic device containing your LIFE against porcelain. Followed by a splash.



I leap up and am confronted with the dilemma of any adult who's become conditioned to the yuck of putting my hand into the toilet bowl. Knowing I have no other way of contacting anyone, I pull it out. And am immediately grateful for ballet. You all know what I mean. At least the water was still clear.

After scrubbing EVERYTHING I dry it off and flip the sodding thing open- and rejoice! It lives! There's a message from B stating their approximate location and a call me when you get close! And then it dies. Eff. I don't know her number...

Ten minutes later I've found a payphone, I've got $2 in 20-cent pieces, I DO know my home number, and the guy who lives there will solve this. Probably.

I call. And although I can hear the bemusement and a certain baffled patience, he does. I call back and he's not only found B's number, he's called her, explained the situation, and can tell me where to meet her.

Two city blocks and a slight error later... We meet. Happy days indeed.


Madame DeFarge said...

You are a brave woman indeed. I'd have been tempted to leave the phone where it was. And I'm not sure about the ballet thing - I may need an explanation!

Ellie said...
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molly said...

oh woof! been there, but every time, the phone clattered on the tile floor instead of a splash! i feel for you.

omchelsea said...

Mme DF: Ballet thing???

molly: It was awful. Cold-sweat of realisation and all that jazz. Absolutely erk.