The bloke and I are both really bad at two things: geographical directions, and remembering where our keys/wallet/phones are. If we arrive at an intersection in the car on our way to, say, London, and he says, “I know this one, we should definitely go right,” I will say, “No no, I remember we’re supposed to go left.” Inevitably we will both be wrong. We will not realize this until we arrive in Birmingham.
Additionally, I seem to be able to remember where he put his wallet/keys/phone, but I can’t recall where I put my own. He can’t remember either, so we tend to be dependent upon my knowing where his things are, just so we have at least one wallet/key/phone.
Last night we decided to celebrate his return by going over to some friends’ house for raclette, champagne, and extremely bad renditions of Every Rose Has Its Thorn on Singstar. The bloke didn’t bring his keys because he believed he’d left them in Germany or possibly Belgium on his arduous journey back from San Francisco. I took out the recycling before racing to the car because while we are usually on time, we never seem to be able to manage that without rushing.
We locked the cats in the house overnight because it was cold, figuring we’d be back fairly early the next morning to let them out. And indeed, we arrived just before 9 AM. We reached the front door. I fished in my pocket for my keys.
They weren’t there.
Twenty minutes of searching all pockets and the car, turning my handbag inside out and looking through the recycling bin yielded nothing. We had to phone our only friend with a spare set of keys. He lives in a village near Cambridge, but he works in Enfield. Since he’s accustomed to our mutual ineptitude, he drove all the way back to rescue us. It took him almost two hours.
In the meantime, we went to get a hot breakfast at the cafe. On our return, the cats peered at us through the bay window, mewing piteously. I racked my brains trying to think how I could have lost my keys in going between our house and the car, and our friends’ house and the car and couldn’t come up with anything. Our friends had searched their house and found nothing.
Our rescuer arrived and opened our door, making extensive commentary about our lack of common sense, which we meekly took in silence. Cups of tea and chocolate chip cookies were consumed, and he went smugly away. We took up the search for keys again.
Five minutes later, the bloke came downstairs with his keys in his hand. They had been in his carry-on luggage. I went outside to look through the recycling bin again.
Ten minutes later, I came in with my keys in my hand. They’d gotten trampled into the snow next to the bin.
This is yet another piece of evidence that there should be an upper limit per household on advanced degrees. The more you acquire, the less capable of dealing with reality you become.