the adventure of the missing little black book

This year, I have been a very good boy. Every year for my entire life since early high-school, I have begun January with the best of intentions of keeping some written plan of what I'm doing. Whether it be a diary, a calendar page printed off Outlook on which I scrawl my engagements, or what-have-you, it has always lasted only a couple of weeks before my usual apathy and disorganisation sets in. But in 2005 I have been maintaining the habit, and have come to be quite reliant on my black leather Collins pocket diary *reliant-on-routine-munkey*.

Then last Friday, disaster struck. While negotiating the procedure of sending a package from the local post office, down the road from where I work, I managed to leave my beloved little black book sitting on the bench as I walked merrily from the establishment.

I woke up feeling like absolute crap on Saturday morning, and promptly went straight back to bed. IF I had had my diary, I doubtless would have quickly flicked through it and seen in my childish lettering: "Ed's Going Away 1pm". But in my muddled sore head, this information was no-where to be found, so I went on to sleep the entire day, dreaming of tunnels and short-films while Ed, Marcus and others were no doubt partying down. Sick-sleepy-munkey woke up just in time to rush off for my engagement with Ms Snazzles, completely forgetting Ed's shindig until it was far too late.

So my sincerest apologies to Mr Eduardo and Mr Marcus - both of whom I was dearly looking forward to seeing again, particularly as the former is about to jetset off to Spain indefinitely. Damn this gold-fish munkey brain of mine!

Whitepages.com.au was called upon this morning, and munkey was dismayed to find that the local post office has NO number. Nope. Can't call em. I rang the central hotline, and after the usual recorded-message, punching-in-numbers tango, was informed by a Mr Patrick that it is contrary to Privacy Laws for him to give me a direct number for a branch, and the branch I wanted was engaged at the moment, so he couldn't put me through. *unimpressed munkey* How the FUCK is it in breach of privacy legislation for a BUSINESS to give out a direct number to one of its branches?!?!

Anyway so I resorted to trundling down there, and yes there was my diary. I had to quote my full name and mobile-phone number - which are written in large black letters inside the cover - to reclaim my beloved... which forces me to wonder: if they had found my name and number in there, WHY THE FUCK didn't they call me when the damn thing was handed in?! "You'd be amazed how many times this happens and the person never comes in to claim it!" the woman commented. Thought munkey: "Maybe they don't remember where they lost it! Do you ever think to CONTACT the person?!" What has become of people? When I worked in customer-service, I used to bust my balls trying to get in touch with anyone who left a wallet, phone etc in the store. I suppose I should be grateful: at least the overwhelming indifference of postal-workers means a decreased likelihood of their going insane and shooting us all. But it seems people just don't care about other people anymore. It depresses me.

"The woods all were peopled with daughters and sons,
The teeming uncounted and unchosen ones,
Who don't dance anymore, they just move around in bubbles,
And nobody notices nobody's troubles,
Nobody notices nobody's troubles..."~ Augie March

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