As my regular readers are well aware, I do have a habit of losing things.
There was my camera, you remember, probably the
most upsetting of my Litany of Losses. Plus Mr B’s ancient mobile phone which surfaced from its hiding place in the garage when I was least expecting it. Mr B was delighted because he was adamant that he had pounds in Pay As You Go investment stashed
on his phone. In fact it turned out that he was a mere 24p in credit. Actually, in the interests of honesty (and I do think the Daily Blog should always endeavour to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, don't you agree?) it may not have
been 24p exactly, I kind of plucked that figure out of the air - but it was definitely well under £1. Mr B was unabashed at this discovery, being more excited that he would now be able to transfer his ring tone to a new mobile. “Spurs are on their
way to Wembley!” it sings out - these days that song from long ago seems remarkably prophetic.
So what have I lost this time? I hear you ask. Along with
some tutting about the way I never, ever manage to get straight to the point in the Daily Blog. Since you ask so nicely, I will tell you because I can't imagine you would ever guess, not in a hundred years, should we all live that long. Which is, let's face
I have lost my dustpan and brush. I mean, how can anybody - even me - lose a dustpan and brush? Apart from anything else, there are only so
many obvious places it could possibly be. The Truly Talented Sue, who has broken off from sewing curtains for rich sheiks in order to cut our unruly locks (she tries out her new clippers on Mr B who declares them to be a great improvement on her previous set)
suggests, slyly, that I check the fridge and the oven. I can only imagine what she is hinting at…
I have turned out the cupboard under the sink, the boiler
cupboard, the cupboard under the stairs and the cloakroom cupboard. The very fact that I have used the word “cupboard” four times in a single sentence is a sure sign of my desperation. I have been upstairs and downstairs, checked in the garage,
even scouted round the garden though why my dustpan and brush would be out with the sunflowers is beyond me. Could it possibly have accidentally found itself tucked into a full bin liner and deposited in the rubbish bin along with all those items the Borough
Council won't let me put in my recycling wheelie bin? Yes, I even check on that.
Through the post, Mr B receives an invitation to the Annual Reunion at the Barnardo’s
school where he was a pupil from the age of thirteen. We know we won't be able to go so I follow a link in the leaflet to a website where we uncover a host of old photographs and memories from those lost days of his teenage years. Here's the teacher who taught
him how to play the bugle - he had to stand before him to demonstrate that he was note perfect playing the Last Post before being awarded his coveted silver bugle. Here's the chap who put all the would-be Wimbledon ball-boys through their paces and selected
Mr B, three years running, for the honour.
Here's a photograph of boys waiting in fear and trembling outside the headmaster’s office to receive a caning
for misdemeanours now long forgotten. Did he ever get caned? I ask Mr B who says, certainly not, he was always a Good Lad. Either that, or he was cunning enough not to get caught.
Through the photographs, we capture events, people, names, buildings that Mr B might have thought Lost For Ever. Would that my dustpan and brush could be so easily rediscovered!
I decide that life is too short to mourn a dustpan and brush. I invest three pounds in a new set. The brush has a soft grip handle, there's a built in brush scraper, whatever that might be, and the pan is of a ridged design
“to capture dirt.” Which is, after all, exactly what Im looking for.
It seems All Is Not Lost after all.