I write this entry as a witless nincompoop, unworthy of sympathy or misguided admiration. This is a confessional story and all those who lampoon me for the events I shall presently narrate are right to do so.
Last week I boarded a train at Farringdon station in central London. As I fumbled in my inside breast pocket for my entangled headphones, I put so much strain on my overcoat that the top button came free of the lapel. I looked on aghast as my dislodged button first tumbled onto the platform and then dropped onto the tracks.
I fear that the more astute among you will be able to predict what I did next. Crouching down on my belly, I proceeded to flay my arms impotently towards the errant button that had settled between two sleepers and was now far beyond the reach of my T-Rex-like arms. Thankfully, before I could make anymore woefully futile rescue attempts, a tube roared into the station and forced me to admit defeat.
At this juncture, most rational human beings would have gone home, shouted at their lovers, and momentarily wept at their own carelessness. The rest would have scheduled a visit to their local haberdashery. But not Matthew Phillips. I returned home only to formulate a strategy that would rectify this gross personal injustice. Crafting an implement out of a wooden pole and a tea-spoon, I could barely contain my own sense of petty pride as I caressed my new invention.
I know what you all must be thinking. What kind of petulant chump goes to so much trouble for a button? Escapees of Colditz Castle would have viewed my creation as an ingenious shovel that could be easily dismantled into innocent crockery the moment a guard approached. But no, I’m ashamed to say that I clearly had no such cause to justify the existence of my home-made gadget.
Anyway, let me get back to my tedious anecdote. When I returned to Farringdon the next day, all that stood between me and my button was a piece of metal and 660 volts of electricity. Being the idiot that I have already demonstrated, you will not be surprised to learn that I refused to acknowledge this fact. Once I had waited for a sufficient interval between two approaching trains, I extracted my button with a skill and dexterity that would baffle anyone who knows me. Although surgeons and detectives alike would have delighted in my untapped talent, their offers of employment would have quickly rescinded when they discovered what triviality had sparked my sudden gift.
If I thought, for one naive nano-second, that my act of indiscretion had gone unnoticed, I was wrong. As I hastily made to exit the terminus, I was soundly tapped on the shoulder by an unimpressed tube attendant who’d seen the whole sordid thing on CCTV. I looked up at her like a guilty schoolboy and gulped nervously when she exclaimed:
"You risked life and limb for a button?"
At that very moment, I suddenly grasped the absurdity of my situation. There I was, clutching a button in one hand and a child’s incarnation of Gandalf’s staff in the other. I looked ridiculous and I have the photo evidence to prove it. All I could do was mumble an apology and slump home with a posture reminiscent of the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I felt no enormous sense of well-being after my little triumph. I felt unspeakably foolish.
Don’t try this at home kids.
PS: Did I mention that the button was plastic?
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