The title is something of a spoiler for this post I’m afraid.
With respect to some of the gentler readers who don’t need stress, shock and, er, more stress this entry is classified as sub-nerve jangling. (Hat Tip to Douglas Adams.)
That said, f you are able to keep a bucket of empathy nearby it may be useful to dip in as the story unfolds, if only to get a sense of the roller-coaster traveled. However, keep a wee lifeguard on duty to dive in and pull you to the shores of the pail as I go beyond it.
Regular readers – Mum – will recall the lost key (mini) drama from late July: where are my keys. One avid reader even suggested that I would find them, perhaps in a infrequently worn shoe some months hence. I smiled politely, nodded and made a note to look up the website of the local home for those of dumbass ideas.
Three weeks later… I may need to check in myself.
Scene: we are at the magnificent Hillend campsite on the peerless Gower peninsula. (You’d hate it, never go. IE: We like it to ourselves.) The youngest offspring is having a camping festival for his birthday and us parents are camped at a distance. Natch the youngsters have the festival marquee whilst the oldies get the pop-up bivvy bag.
Proceedings have been excellent and on the final morn in the absence of life at the teen-big-top I pack away everything I can ready for the migration back across the Severn Bridge. Kit from the par-tay tent has been surreptitiously gathered over the previous period and assorted detritus has already been square away. (I do so enjoy the 3D jigsaw challenge of packing metric tonnes of crap into a VW Up! No, I do. That exclamation mark belongs to VW by the way, yet is strangely relevant to the excitement I derive from a good pack.)
[Aside: Does anything else have this kind of built it exclamation? Aside from the diminutive VeeDub, I can only think of Westward Ho!]
Back to scene, zoom in: an unused by me – crucial plot detail – cagoule is one of a number of clothing items retrieved from the blast zone of the rave area. I have an Ikea bag filling with neatly rolled/folded household weather gear/footwear. Cagoule close up: It’s midnight blue, unbranded, a flimsy shower cheater of a garment, the contradictory kind of coat that makes you instantly sweaty if you have a pulse. I fold an arm, the other, the hood and roll tightly. Hmm, that’s not right: it has a slightly spiky, unbending feel at odds with the precision executed.
[Aren’t you glad you know what’s coming next? Now locate your empathy bucket and scoop out a handful.]
I reach into the pocket and there they are.
[Now I don’t want to be overly dramatic here, but I’ll call upon the following clip – worth 2 minutes of your time – and the bit that’s relevant is from 1.19: Wide angle: panning up and back. Picture Charlton Heston, Planet of the Apes. The intensity of feeling and personal weightiness is spot on only it’s a pudgy bald Welshman in a tiny tent who’s found a front door key.]
“Damn you, Damn you all to hell.”
- Keys are not found in shoes. (That’d be ridonculous.)
- Keys are found in tents in West Wales.
- They are magic keys because no one in the house has ever worn that cagoule so how could they have ever have like ever got there?
- They are extra special magical keys because when everyone in the house searched for them and looked through every pocket of every garment – whilst Dad frantically turned over his own office in the hunt – they “weren’t there”.
- Don’t lose your $hit over lost keys. They’ll turn up eventually. (Either that or you change all the locks as a precaution at great expense.)