Originally published in The Clifton Courier, March 28, 2018

Something great happened to me the other week and now I’m concerned about repercussions.

On Thursday, I lost my phone. I’d been siting on the bus and made the fateful decision to hop up and sit in a different seat with a better view. Without my realising it, my phone had slipped from my pocket* and fell between a crack in the seat.

* As such, I would like to point out that this whooooooole thing would not have happened if women were granted the same pocket practicality as men. I don’t understand why having a uterus automatically equates to less pocket space. Seriously, what gives?! We can’t use that thing for storage, people! 

A few minutes later, I’d realised I was without phone and was madly rifling through the vast expanses of my gym bag. Fear struck me and I hopped off at the next stop, checking if I’d left my phone at the bus stop.

The run back down town was like something you’d see in a romantic comedy – it was even raining, for heaven’s sake. Leaving my inhibitions (and, as it turned out, my phone) on that blasted bus, I was running past men in suits and women with well-maintained shoulder-length haircuts. It was the part of the movie where the protagonist realises they can’t live without the conveniently-attractive love interest who is minutes away from stepping on a bus/plane/train and out of their life forever. I, however, wasn’t running towards my happily ever after. I was sprinting towards a combination of wires and metal with no password lock that contained screenshots from a rather salacious group chat with my closest friends (this is my Clifton girl gang – people who have known me since around the time I began to master the control of my bowels, so you can imagine the intensity of incriminating honesty which colours that conversational cesspit) and a series of rather unflattering selfies where I’m trying to work out which one of my eyes is smaller (I think it’s the left one, but I just can’t be sure*).

* After going through my pictures, it turns out there are several burst of these selfies on there. It would be terribly embarrassing if they appeared on a missing persons poster for me… but they’d be chosen because they give the most accurate depiction of me. 

Alas, no phone.

I went back to work, hoping I’d just left it at my desk.

No phone.

After plugging my details into the “Find My iPhone” feature, I discovered my telephonic communication instrument was still on the bus, having recognised the route from the coordinates it was giving off.

I was able to remotely lock my phone*, thus preventing whoever picked it up from deducing just how boring I am, based on my camera roll.

* Dad was amazed at this. He didn’t quite get it, but he was amazed. 

Cautiously hopeful, I instructed my phone give off a sound. I realised this was risky, as it had could potentially alert a scummy scumbag to the fact that there was a lost smartphone nearby for them to pawn (ideally they’d use the money for extra-strength teabags, sturdy pillows and maybe a few cheeky fireworks). But I realised that if the phone had slipped into the crack/abyss between the seat and the wall, it might never be found. The battery would eventually die and it would remain there until someone bought the bus to convert into a caravan in order to beat the dismal housing prices in Sydney.

I had to take a chance.

And, as it turns out, the gamble paid off. The person who found it was no scumbag.

She was a uni student and, from what I gather, a youth worker for a church just 20 minutes from my office.

That’s the exact person you’d want to find your phone. First of all, she’s a young and, probably, cash-strapped person who understands my reliance on my phone and could empathise with me on just how crap it would be to lose it. Plus, she had the moral fibre of someone who, presumably, voluntarily spent her spare time enriching the lives of children. I’d hit the jackpot.

I met the sweetheart (at her church, bless her) and gave her a scented candle I found in an unpacked bag the weekend prior as a way of expressing my gratitude – because the best way to express oneself is via either scented candles or interpretive dance, and I didn’t have a boombox handy.

But I worry I’ve been too lucky. I’ve heard lost phone horror stories and I had a fairy tale on my hands.

I’ve not done anything particularly kind of late. I’m very quick to judge, particularly people on reality television. I passive aggressively take out the rubbish, being purposefully loud while I do it. The only charity I’ve donated to in recent months has been the “treat yourself fund”*.

* The fund is still desperately seeking donations. 

And then something lovely like this happens.

This is karmic credit.

And just like a loan shark, Karma’s gonna get its money back somehow.

I’m dreading the metaphorical repayment notice, which will be coming in the mail any day now. And geez will that interest sting when it hits.

If there’s no column next week, assume I’ve spilled tea on my laptop or I’ve fallen into a manhole on the footpath.