Tuesday 31 July 2012

Who Shot JR?

I think we all agree that yesterday’s blog was a fine example of a whodunnit. The main thrust of today’s blog is more of a psychological thriller – like one of them films where the main character thinks he’s gone mad (think The Number 23, Rosemary’s Baby, Flightplan or Rambo). But, before that, let’s me get rid of the gnawing sense of confusion everyone is feeling; you want me to answer this question: do you know where the doughnuts came from? Yes. Yes I do.

This morning I placed a message on the intranet forum at work asking for information. This led to someone telling me the truth. Someone had sat at my desk on Saturday* and someone (else) had bought some doughnuts as a treat but no-one wanted them, not even the person who bought them. They were just left there. If it was a child’s body left after senseless acts had been committed on it (and the child had died) the person who left them there would – rightly- be questioned by the Police and – if killing a child is a crime (this week) – they would be arrested and demonized. But they leave doughnuts on my desk and it’s just a careless act that I’m ‘making a big deal out of’.

*I managed to rein in my anger at the revelation that someone had eaten at my desk; I am still quite new to the area and don’t want to be ‘that guy’ (yet). But what is my desk? A fucking food court? A picnic bench in a park? The desk of whoever is eating at my desk? No, it’s my fucking desk.

Inception

“They will turn up if you stop looking”

Why is a missing child (and yes I acknowledge that, after talking about child murder already, a missing child remark is perhaps a bit much) so much different from a pair of jeans? When a child goes missing (ok, maybe I could have used a pet dog in this example) people don’t say to the parents, “You should stop looking for a few days she* will turn up the moment you stop looking” or “do you definitely have a child?” But these are the kind of questions I was forced to answer. Admittedly the question about whether or not the jeans exist or not was asked by me (to me). I did have to have a bloody good think about it.

What the devil am I going on about? Well, and this is how I know they exist – if anyone knows anything: Last week I thought I was wearing a pair of Wrangler jeans that I bought before I went to Munich (Germany, in German: Munchen). But when I came to changing out of them I saw them on the spare bed, where I keep some of them clothes. Oh aye, I thought, I bought the other pair of similar jeans from Marks and Spencer as a back-up to take with me to Munchen (in English: Munich) and that’s what I am wearing. I communicated this to my partner so I know it happened (again this word ‘know’ – did this happen? does she exist?).

This still doesn’t explain anything (you think). Today I realised I didn’t have my debit card in my wallet. So I needed to check everywhere it could be (i.e. everywhere). I limited it to my flat in the first instance – which I am guessing is the starting range of a hunt for a missing child also. The debit card wasn’t turning up. When was the last time I had it? Friday, I thought (incorrectly). So, what was I wearing on Friday. The Wrangler jeans! There I will find it (the card). No, nope it’s not there. Maybe I had those other jeans on…No, I’m sure I didn’t…let’s check them to be safe…ok, where are they?

The next 45 minutes involved two people going through a comfortable – but not large – two-bedrooomed flat looking for a pair of jeans. I had been about to go for a run. I have a short-ish temper. I was getting frustrated and thinking about cutting my fucking arm off just so the jeans would see how serious I was about wanting to find them.

I definitely had them last week when I noticed that I was wearing them. I haven’t worn them since. I haven’t slept anywhere but my flat since. The only place I have changed my clothes is the gym where I play football. I KNOW I didn’t have these jeans on when I did that and that they couldn’t be at the gym: (1) The ‘work’ trousers I wore on the day I played football were still in my football bag; (2) I rang the gym and asked if there had been any clothes handed in – even though I know I didn’t wear them that day; and (3) I FUCKING KNOW I didn’t have them on that day.

What other possibility? Hmmm. I put some rubbish in the bins outside on Saturday. But I know I didn’t put a pair of jeans in the kitchen bin bag before I took it out and I know that I didn’t put a pair of jeans in the paper and cardboard recycling before I took them out. But what is knowing? So I – and I alone, you would have thought my partner would have helped – went into the rubbish (garbage in American) bins outside the building and rummaged through OTHER PEOPLE’S rubbish to find the bin bags**. The jeans were not there.

The jeans were fucking nowhere. And there is no other explanation for how they could not be where they were last placed, (probably) on the spare bed. Or maybe in the warbrobe in my bedroom. But now they are not in this flat. A pair of jeans has disappeared into thin air. My Lord Lucan jeans.

It’s quite frustrating when something like this happens. I am quite good under pressure. I am quite calm in a crisis. I don’t really get too phased. I couldn’t give a fuck about most things is why. But not being able to explain something…that gets to me. My mum thinks it’s quite funny to tell me how everyone on her side of the family loses their mind quite young. Great. Is this the beginning of the end?

There is no ‘doughnut’ happy ending to this one kids.

*not who you are thinking, could be anyone.
**yeah I put the fucking recycling in the bin: sue me.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s