It will all work out fine
via Will, telling him to tell us that the pouch was now in the boot of a car heading for Liverpool. It contains her phone. She’s staying in a cottage without internet or mobile signal, but could we please post her passport to the attached address because she’s flying back from Dublin.
We received this after the post office had closed on Saturday and therefore waited to hear more.
On Monday, we received a call confirming that she would like it posted to an address where somebody knows somebody who lives there, but not to the isolated cottage where she’s staying because she might have left and anyway the postman wouldn’t find it. I expressed a little windiness about this plan and suggested that she kept things simple by flying back from Belfast, which is when the penny finally dropped that the driving licence was also in the pouch in the boot in Liverpool. ‘So you’re stranded on an island with no way of getting off?’ This doesn’t go down well. She makes it clear that none of this is her fault.
Zam was exasperated by the latest pouch debacle, but I had to remind him that our first two outings together consisted of my driving him to a wedding because he’d lost his car and then collecting it from Heathrow, where he’d left it with the lights on, so it had a flat battery. It’s not easy to stop people at airports and ask to borrow jump leads because they’re either hurrying for a flight or very tired and cross and trying to get home.
I fielded the phonecalls about the passport while sitting in the windscreen-repair shop waiting for my car. I’d finally got round to this because I was recently pulled over by the police. Their warning about the speed limit was overtaken by their concern about Fletcher the dachshund, who clearly sensed that these were the people in charge because, for the first time ever, he didn’t snarl and bark at strangers.
‘You’re committing an offence by having a dog in the front seat without a seatbelt, although I can see that he’s no trouble,’ they said. They then told me that my windscreen was illegal and my tyres were borderline.
‘I suppose it’s because she’s not going to be sacked if she doesn’t turn up for work tomorrow morning,’ I tell a friend with whom I’m sharing the passport story. ‘Exactly,’ she says. ‘One more year of this.’ ‘And then what?’ ‘And then it won’t happen again,’ she concludes.
Olive returns home having had a lovely time, reunited with both her pouch and her passport. I tell her about the police: ‘I did not see the speed limit and I did not know about dogs on seats. It wasn’t my fault.’
‘Don’t worry,’ she replies, with total confidence. ‘It will all work out fine.’
‘You’re stranded on an island with no way of getting off ?