Those of you who follow me on facebook will have read my plea for help last night.
Can all of holy Ireland and those with any influence please call on the all seeing St Anthony to find my phone. As a non believer he’ll never listen to me, even if I promise my instant conversion. I took it home but it’s gone. So demented here that I’ve even looked in the dish washer and hot press for it.
By the time I posted it I was… well lets just say I had gone past the growling ‘Ah lads where is my feckin phone?’ stage and moved into the snapping, ‘I have looked in the car a thousand times already!’ stage. Those left in the hunt for my phone were brave, and certainly not doing it for the gratitude I was showing them. As I sat in a huff asking social media to help, I was all out of inspiration.
So I waited hoping to stumble upon it, to just look somewhere I’d already looked and by magic it would have appeared. Time passed and it was getting closer to midnight with no sign of my phone. Perhaps St Anthony was in bed?
Wandering into my eldest daughters bedroom for the one hundredth time was one step too much for her. She had left the search party very early on, which was not very forgiving or understanding of her if you ask me.
‘For Gods sake Mum, I told you already to sign into your itunes account and go to ‘find my phone’. You’re driving me mad.’
My heart sank. The words ‘sign into your itunes account’ sent a wave of fear over me. As she continued giving out, in her definitely not indoor voice, I matched her volume, shouting,
‘If I knew my feckin password I could do that, but I haven’t a clue what it is so stop asking me.’ I left her room to the sound of her informing me I was a disaster, which a lovely friend had helpfully also commented on facebook already!
Storming back into the sitting room I began to pull out the couches, not forgetting to look under the rug, behind the curtains and in drawers I’ve not opened in months prior to the beginning of the search. Exhausted and fed up I sat down with my laptop and googled my itunes account. It really was my only hope. As predicted it didn’t recognise me, nor any of my passwords, sending my already raised blood pressure sky high. However after encouragement from another less cranky daughter of mine I was in. We activated ‘find my phone’ and waited. Oh the excitement. Had it been stolen? Were we about to identify the thief? Would we tell the police or drive to the house ourselves and demand it back?
‘Okay,’ announced my daughter, ‘I see it.’ I looked over her shoulder and there was a map with two dots on it. Laughing she said, ‘It’s here in the house.‘
‘Really? I said, trying to make sense of the two dots. ‘Why does it keep moving?‘
‘That’s me moving,’ she said as she swayed from side to side. ‘Look your phone is right beside me. Oh for Gods sake Mum, it’s under me!’ With that she picked up the couch cushion and lo and behold, there was my phone. Obviously St Anthony had shown the iphone app where it was.
‘Mum, how could you not have looked under the cushion?’
Reaching for my phone I smiled at her, ‘Maybe I did? Maybe St Anthony put it there?’