picture by carf
Oops. Cue lots of slapping of pockets, checking inside sandwich bags, and let-me-see-now-when-did-I-last use-it? Until I had a more sensible idea: I called my own number, and was strangely nonplussed when it was answered immediately.
She had found it in Canary Wharf, she said, in a strong Italian accent (or was it Polish?). No she was no longer in the Wharf, but she would be back later this afternoon, could I meet her at 4? I could.
It was 12.45; three hours. How much, I wondered, would three hours on the phone to Rome cost me? Or Warsaw. I thought of phoning Orange and having the SIM disabled... but it occured to me that if I did that then I wouldn't be able to contact her again. Reluctantly, I went with the trust thing.
Three hours later I turned up, not entirely confidently, to find my limited faith in human nature boosted: there standing patiently in Cabot Square was an attractive and elegant woman clutching my phone. I was smug that I had thought of turning up with bunch of palest and pinkest perfect tulips for her, and she accepted them gracefully with a smile, handing me, in return, my precious Nokia. She was Italian; there was a brief moment when I nearly kissed her, and an even briefer one where she seemed to expect me to. But it passed and we went our separate ways.
"Thanks again", I called to her as she left, "muchas gracias!", I yelled, for I am an oaf.