I’m not bad at using time. Sometimes this means using it to rest but mostly I’m medium-decent at being productive: unlike Bowie, who had that thing about pleasuring himself to the floor. (Niche; don’t stress).

Today I did work stuff early doors – sorting some indoor cricket action – then tootled back to my Fake Framer’s Lair. There was a hitch. Having jogged the thirty-seven yards through the cooling rain into the house, opened up my bag, tabled my lap-top, it became apparent that the ancient iphone was missing (again-again).

Being mildly accepting of this fairly high frequency event, despite the gathering suspicion I might need to go back into town (and check the table we’d recently decanted the Essential Electro-valuables of Modern Living upon), I jogged back to the car – yup, still wincing at the rain – and found nothing. Then re-jogged back into the house, whilst weighing-up The Likelihoods. Na. ‘Godda be in the car’. Re-jogged out.

The phone was in the car; having fallen – nay somersaulted – as they do, against the grain of the universe, out of my jacket pocket and not merely down behind my right ankle but clunkety-clunked into the footwell of the rear passenger-side. Spread-eagled; in the open; but where *it could not be* but for the intervention of devilry of a high order. Practically flicking the vees. Still, it’s a relief, I think, as I jog back in through the rain.

#Lifesrichwotnots. Those little(?) micro(?) challenges. Digging at those little(?) anger-points. At what stage do we bite? (I’m medium-decent at not biting). If I swore, I did it in the Quiet Voice. I knew the fekker would be in the car, really… and it really was. In plain sight – just in the ridicu-place. Maybe all along I knew it would be there, because of the angles: my smallish, contorted pocket; that seat; my general level of clumsiness. Boom. A quiet result.