In the old flat, my shaver/trimmer/whatever — chin hair snipper — lived in a skull by the TV. Easy to find. Never need move, of course, as long as it wasn’t in use.
A week last Thursday, I put said shaver in my brown carry-all, along with a few choice things that I wished to keep separate from the rest of the junk.
My charger made it safe.
My passport hardly even noticed the move.
My Me-I-Be bead bracelet didn’t even get a knot.
My shaver, on the other hand, vanished.
I searched boxes.
I emptied the bag twice.
I checked the bin.
It didn’t head to the bathroom.
I hadn’t packed it away some place silly like in with my socks.
It didn’t get confused with tools.
On Saturday, I started a systematic search through boxes and bags and nada.
Not even in the car.
On Sunday, I stood over the mound with no home, hand on hip, scratching my head.
From my vantage point I could see its charger, which funnily enough is the part I usually lose.
And then this morning, I found the shaver sitting as pretty as you like on a shelf, right next to my files.
I must’ve put it there because a shelf is a sensible place, easy to remember when there’s no other furniture.
Unfortunately, I’ve not been looking in sensible places. I went ahead and assumed, since I know I’m a twat, that I put it some place stupid (I have found my wallet in the fridge).
Well, I didn’t.
I can put my insults in my pipe and smoke it!
The truth of the matter is, past me isn’t the idiot — present me is the twat.
Although, with that said, past me did put the skull on the windowsill and didn’t put the shaver in it, so maybe it’s 50/50.
However it lands, I’ve still spent 10 days looking for a shaver that’s been sitting on a shelf.