The Shirt

Without a doubt, the most important thing in a marriage is trust… You’ve committed yourself to this person, and you hope that they will also cherish, honour, and love you right back. You trust that your marriage is a priority, and you trust that they hold the sacred bond of marriage above all else.

You also trust that when you ask them to hold a John Lewis bag, they’ll hold the John Lewis bag. Am I right or am I right?

I should explain.

We just got back from Europe two weeks ago. We spent four days in Sweden and ten days in England. Our trip was definitely up there in the top 10 trips of all time: we visited an archipelago on the South coast of Sweden,  we went to a ukulele jam in the basement of a grungy London pub, I sat on Sting’s sofa. All in all: it was a great trip.

So, needless to say – we  were pretty sad to head home. We headed to Heathrow Terminal 2 older, wiser, and with swollen fingers from the ukulele jam. We were excited at what awaited us at T2, and when I say, “we” I really mean, “me,” because T2 is basically a mall* with some planes coming and going.

I didn’t spend a lot of time shopping while we were in London (I was too busy sitting on Sting’s sofa), because I knew that Heathrow Terminal 2 would give me what I needed: souvenirs and some additions to my wardrobe.

Long story short – I bought a new blue and white stripy shirt at John Lewis. My wonderful and usually very trustworthy husband took the bag from the salesperson.

Just to be clear: he was definitely carrying the bag.

Fast-forward 12 hours. We’re home, we’re jet-lagged, and we’re unpacking because we’d rather get it over with, and I’m like, “where’s the John Lewis bag?”

The it all comes back to me. Heathrow Terminal 2. The husband was definitely carrying the John Lewis bag. We had lunch at Leon. And two glasses of wine. Suddenly, the husband tells me we have to get to the gate. We get on the plane. We travel through time and space. We land. My parents pick us up. We get home. We start unpacking. Which brings us back to:

“You definitely had the bag.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

This goes back and forth for about 10-60 minutes, before we agree that we should try to do something about it. The husband tries calling the airport, and the restaurant. I email the restaurant and then the airport. Then we realise that its night time in England, and that we are much too tired to be having this conversation.

Around 2am I wake up, and I look at my phone. There’s an email from a man that claims to work at the very restaurant that we lunched in. He said that he received my email, and he asks for a description of the shirt. I’m thinking, “if he has the shirt, shouldn’t he know what the shirt looks like?” I write a brief description anyway, and fall back asleep.

Around 8am I wake up, and I look at my phone. There’s another email from the man that my description matches the shirt he found, and he says he’d be happy to send it to me**.

And I was torn, because while I was happy that my shirt was found, and I was happy that it was on its way back to me, I hadn’t quite managed to make my husband feel bad enough for losing it in the first place.

I was kind of hoping that he’d more than make up for it – with foot rubs, and washing all the dishes several nights in a row, and letting me have the last ice cream bar.

So I didn’t exactly tell him.

IMG_7612

 

+++

* Heathrow Terminal 2 has been revamped, and now features some of my favourite shops: Cath Kidson, Hamley’s Toy Store, and John Lewis.

** Well, actually he’s happy to send it somewhere in the UK. So I had him send it to my friend Jam, who has since posted it to me. How kind!

Advertisements

One thought on “The Shirt

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s