Following on with the forgetfullness theme, today S lost her fancy Palm Treo mobile-phone/laptop/WMD/fax/walkman thingy.
It was left in the cab, dropped on the ground, left at the medical centre or perhaps snatched out of her bag from a passing bus — dexterity points for that final method… but whatever the means the phone is gone.
So S gets home, obviously upset about losing her phone and borrows mine to call the cab company to see if the cabbie had it.
The call centre asked for a number they could reach S:
“Stu, what’s your number?”
“I don’t know”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I don’t know. The number was in your phone”
“You don’t know your own number?” (tension rising)
“No, I don’t call myself much” (a totally un-needed inflamatory comment)
“Why don’t you know your number?”
“Because it was in your phone — I left the number at the shop when I got a new Simpati card.” (Ok I admit that was just plain stooopid)
(glaring) “Ok, well did you fix the house phone? What is that number?”
“No, I haven’t fixed it. I forgot”
(extreme glaring) “I asked you to fix that weeks ago.”
(venemous glaring, paint peeling off the wall behind me)
I leave the room.
So I don’t know my own phone number and didn’t fix a phone S has been asking me to fix for a month or so and suddenly I’m the bad guy — this pregnancy stuff really makes people act crazy!