Emergency call ... in the loo!
ONE of the first rules of journalism is to avoid clichés like the plague.
So I’m a little embarrassed that today I’ve managed to subject my phone to the worst fate that can befall a mobile. Not lost, not stolen – but accidentally dropped down a toilet.
You’ll recall that Ewan McGregor faced a similar dilemma in Trainspotting, except that he had to decide whether to retrieve a tablet of an illegal high from The Worst Toilet In The World, whereas mine slipped from my hands and swan-dived into a nice clean bowl of fresh water in Edinburgh’s Filmhouse with an elegance that would have Tom Daley swooning in envy.
Of course, the next question is whether or not to plunge in after it. A £300 phone? I didn’t waste much time considering that one.
Here’s what I discovered afterwards though: the camaraderie this engenders in a ladies’ loo.
A path cleared to the nearest hand-drier. Someone looked up the nearest repair shop on their mobile. I did not go at all short on sympathy or advice, although understandably no one wanted to pick up and examine my phone.
A quick Google of possible cures means that my three-month-old phone is now burrowed in a bag of rice, which is supposed to draw out residual moisture from the circuits while creating a form of toilet sushi.
Oddly, I’m now quite Zen about not being contactable for the rest of the day. After all, if someone really needs to get hold of me, they’ll flush me out.