The Key To Getting Your Lost Property Back

, , , , , | Right | December 4, 2018

(I’m the idiot in this story. My husband and I have had a rare night out drinking, and we are making our way home in a private hire taxi we called and booked in advance. My husband decides to stop the taxi early, so we can get out and buy supper at a fish-and-chips shop before walking the last 250 yards to our house. It has stopped raining, thankfully, so it is quite a nice walk — aka “slight stagger.” I decide I don’t want supper, so I walk down the road on my own in order to get the fire going, put the kettle on, and so forth. I reach our front door, only to realise I’ve lost my house keys. I check my pockets and my bag — even emptying both onto the floor — but no keys. I am getting stressed by now — my husband has left his keys at home. I call the taxi office.)

Me: “Hello! My name is Mrs. [My Name] and I just got out of the taxi at [Street]. I dropped my keys in the cab! Could you ask him to look for them, please? I’m so sorry; I know you’re busy.”

Dispatcher: “Okay, one moment.”

(I hear the dispatcher radioing my taxi driver, and several moments later I hear the reply.)

Dispatcher: “Sorry, Mrs. [My Name], but the driver said there are no keys in the cab at all.”

Me: *explodes* “They must be! I’ve just got out of the cab, not five minutes ago!”

Dispatcher: “Mrs. [My Name], please, he’s a very honest driver! Only this afternoon, he handed in a wallet that—”

Me:I don’t care about a wallet! My keys are in his cab! There’s nowhere else they can be! I had them in my hand, and now I don’t have them! I bet he didn’t even look, did he?”

Dispatcher: “Mrs. [My Name], he’s back at the office, and he’s had another look. Another driver helped, and there’s nothing there—”

(My husband walks up to the door, eating his supper. I quickly and angrily explain what happened.)

Me: “Are you calling me a liar? Do you realise we are standing here in the rain, at nearly midnight, outside our locked door because your driver won’t search his car properly?”

(I fumble for my automatic umbrella, pressing the button to open it, and raise it above our heads. And hear a slight “tinkle” noise as my keys hit the concrete floor.)

Me: *speechless*

Husband: *laughing hysterically*

Dispatcher: “Mrs. [My Name]? Are you still there?”

Me: *calmer now* “Yes. I’m… um… still here. I found my keys, and I’m so, so very sorry. I somehow dropped them into my umbrella. I am so, so very sorry. Please apologise to the driver for me. Oh, God, I am so embarrassed. Oh, my word.”

Husband: *still laughing*

Dispatcher: *trying to answer me without obviously laughing* “It’s… ahem… okay, Mrs. [My Name].” *cough* “No, really, I’ll explain to the driver. You have a good sleep now, eh?”

(I apologised a lot more, and then let the poor man go and do his job. I vowed to — and did — pop into the taxi office the next day to leave a £20 tip for that driver, to try to apologise for practically calling him lazy and a thief. For the next six or so months, however, it was my husband who booked the taxis for us, and each time, I heard him say, “Yes, of course I’ll take my keys. I won’t let her be in charge of them. Yes, I promise. Thanks, bye!” He got a lot of mileage out of that one, with family and friends.)

1 Thumbs
513
VOTES