Relief comes in many forms.
For some of us it comes at 5pm on a Friday. Sometimes, it comes again at 8.30 on a Monday morning. Often, it comes in the bathroom. Or at the bar. Or on a litter strewn bench down by the canal.
(But the less said about that, the better.)
And now, in 2017, because we are all contactable all of the time (and if we’re not we’d better have a FUCKING GOOD REASON!), it can come, across the airwaves, at 3.12 in the afternoon of an otherwise non-descript day.
At 3.11 I was happy enough. I’d forgotten about the events of the morning.
If I’m honest, I hadn’t thought about ‘bunny’ and his whereabouts since 9.03, at school, when the four year old seemed satisfied with my suggestion that “bunny’ll turn up…mummy will bring him later.”
I hadn’t lost bunny, but he’d gone missing on my watch. Which left me responsible. My suggestion that “mummy will bring him later” was a defence mechanism. For the boy, and for me.
How could she bring him?
We’d left the house with him and now, here we were in the classroom, bunny-less…bunny-free…sans bunny.
This was bad. The boy likes bunny. He insists bunny likes him too. The boy will lie awake tonight imagining bunny lost, lonely, and sleeping in a cardboard box under a railway arch.
This could be traumatic.
The boy will find it difficult too.
So, I did the only thing I could think of: I lied to my young son, and then forgot about the whole thing.
And then, at 3.12 pm, I got a text message from my wife. Aka ‘mummy’. It was a picture of bunny, and a quizzical “hmm…look who I found!?”
In lost property, apparently.
And I thought to myself: “well, isn’t that reassuring…in these technologically advanced times, the good old fashioned lost property box still works a treat.”
Which was just a defence mechanism. I was actually thinking: “JESUS!…dodged a bullet there mate!”