Mood: Pissed off, upset.
Style: Slightly dishevelled.
Mr P and I went to London yesterday to celebrate his 32nd birthday. We took in an art exhibition, got pissed, ate loads of lovely food (restaurant reviews to follow) and got even more pissed. It was a fabulous day out. Ands the sun even decided to show his face. Perfect.
So imagine the worse possible end to this blissful day when we’re sitting at home having a sobering cuppa and a fag. I can’t find my purse. I was a bit drunk so I carefully checked every single pocket and compartment in my bag and coat and Mr P’s coat before I got angry, upset and started chucking things around. I hate losing things.
Mr P calmed me down enough to call the bank to cancel my credit cards. My NHS card, library card and photos of Mr P would have to be given up for lost, along with my house keys. Bummer, but I had resigned myself to the loss.
Until, there’s a tap on door and Mr P is confronted by a policeman who asks if I live there. When I show my face, he proudly shows me my purse which I had dropped in a cab and had been handed in by the kindly driver. I was thrilled and showed my appreciation by smacking a kiss right on the copper’s cheek. If only I knew the name / company / even make of car of the driver, I would’ve sent him my express thanks as well.
Just when you think your day’s taken a nosedive for the worst, something amazing like this happens and boosts you right back up again. There are decent people left in the world.
That’s the last time I ever slag off the rozzers. Or taxi drivers, for that matter.