That’s what it’s called when a dummy speaks, right?
I thought, in lieu of the usual Friday Film Feature, I’d recount a tale by way of making up some of the entertainment-of-visitors deficit I’ve run up on this blog. A tale of a lost pen.
A humorous tale of a lost pen, I should say; let the smelling salts stand where they are.
I had intended to use today’s pen on Tuesday, but it was not where I expected to find it. This was slightly distressing, because one of the few habits I have that is reliable is returning a pen to the in-battery facility; a small correspondence box with a drawer for a half-dozen pens in its base, which itself rests in a profoundly rustic Welsh dresser which came to me through my parents’ protracted move. Since this pen doesn’t sit comfortably in the drawer, it gets to sit on top of the inks which take up the space one is meant to stick letters in the box.
I didn’t even have to open the glass doors on the top of the dresser to establish that the pen wasn’t where it should have been. But of course, one does, and roots around. Did it get in behind? No. Down the side? Nope. And that was it for the easy possibilities. We then start the unhappy game of I put it down somewhere foolish.
Our house is… cluttered. My son builds railways on all horizontal surfaces. We haven’t yet finished the integration of crap from the parents’ house with our pre-existing crap. We have to use plastic containers full of Lego, roughly shoe-box size, to keep the insane diabetic cat off items of furniture we don’t want her to mistake for a litter box (if we’re not sitting on it, then it’s a litter box). Setting down a pen without attending to where one sets it, even a relatively large pen, makes for problems.
So, when not attending The Regular Job and not otherwise engaged in cooking, washing, or cleaning up after the flippin’ cat, I was peering under things and into corners, all to no avail. I was becoming resigned to the idea that the pen would not be found until the slow campaign of making the house a place for living in (insane diabetic cats already with 14 birthdays on the clock can’t last forever…) removed whatever it was hidden by. This wasn’t a devastating blow by any means, as (i) I’ve got plenty of other pens to fall back on and (ii) this one cost less than burger at McKing&W. I wasn’t happy, as I’d hardly had any use out of the thing since its recent arrival, but I could cope.
Coping only had to struggle on until this morning, as it turned out. It turns out that it was in the pocket of a shirt worn on Sunday. Not much worn* either, which is why it got hung up rather that chucked in the laundry… unlike the shirt from Saturday, which I had roused out of the hamper and given a pat down, because my search was wide-ranging if unscientific. Hooray!
Some minutes of pointless self-castigation then followed.
There was something to learn from this incident. Not that I have all too human failings in the areas of retention and looking after my stuff– that has, alas, been well-known for a long time. It is the simple and happy discovery that the cap seap on this pen is very good indeed; almost a week standing point-up, but not a moment of hesitation when I opened it up to start writing this morning. Not bad for a pen that costs the same as a ride on a city bus.
*”Not much worn” meaning duration of contact with me since last washing. It is, in all honesty, profoundly worn and is a “Weekend when I don’t expect to interact with others” item of clothing.