No one saw my pyjamas falling down, but I still can’t find the Nissan
To this end, I’m holding up a torch and the waistband of my pyjamas.
They are my husband’s and too loose; my modesty is a concern.
“Find it?” my husband asks when I return to the house.
“I’ve lost my Nissan,” I say.
I’m running up and down empty streets. Having to hold up pyjama bottoms is affecting my gait.
I’m grateful for cover of darkness.
“What took you so long?” my husband says on my return.
“No one saw my pyjamas falling down,” I pant, “but I still can’t find the Nissan.”
“You’ve probably just forgotten where you parked it,” my husband says.
My husband returns from work.
“When did they start resurfacing our street?” he says, “it’s mayhem outside. Machines everywhere. Had to park my car in the square.”
“No idea,” I say, “it’s Monday. Writing day. I only left the house for lunch.”
I’m getting out of the shower when I receive a text from my husband: where did you find Nissan btw? Couldn’t see it on way to work.
I respond: completely slipped my mind. Will look now.
He responds: ??????? PLEASE tell me keys not in ignition.
I ‘m running up and down busy streets, hunting for my Nissan.
It’s tiring but not wearing too-loose pyjamas really helps.
I’m in the local council offices. “My car’s gone missing,” I pant to the lady behind a desk, “maybe it got moved when they resurfaced the roads.”
“The roads were done by a private company,” she says nicely, picking up the phone, “I’ll phone them. When did it go missing?”
“No idea,” I pant. “Can you describe the car?”
“Small, red, crappy-looking,” I pant.
“The make of the car,” she says kindly.
“Oh,” I pant, “Nissan.”
“Registration?”
“No idea,” I pant, “but the keys were in the ignition and there’s a bathroom sink in the back.”
She looks at me more kindly.
At least I’m not wearing pyjamas, I think.
I’m running through town.
“I think my car’s been stolen,” I pant, passing two friends, “they were resurfacing the roads but I’ve been into the council and they said it’s highly unlikely that the roads company would move a car without notifying its owner. So that means it must be stolen.”
Their mouths fall open.
“No it doesn’t,” they say. “Well what else could it mean?” I pant.
“No idea,” they say, “but there isn’t a person in the world that would steal that car. It’s not even a possibility.”
“Well,” I think, “if my Nissan could hear.”
I’m cantering up the hill to the Garda station when Paul, owner of The Auld Shite Shop calls.
He wants to know if I’m opening the premises for him.
“Can’t,” I pant, “my car’s been stolen.”
“Are you bloody stupid or what?” he says, “who in their right fucking minds would steal that piece of auld shite?”
“Well,” I say, with fantastic froideur, “people buy yours.”
I continue running up the hill but break my stride to answer a call from my husband.
“Have you found it?” he says.
“No,” I say, “it must be stolen.”
“Not a hope,” he says, “even with the keys in the ignition.”
My heart goes out fully to my Nissan.
I mean, just imagine being so reviled.
I resume cantering. I arrive at the Garda station, out of breath.
I ring the bell, pull my shoulders back.
“Of course she might be stolen,” I tell myself, “looks aren’t everything.”
Mustering all the dignity I have, on my old Nissan’s behalf, I announce, “someone has stolen my Nissan.”
“Car registration?” the garda asks.
“Shit,” I pant, shoulders slumping, “back in a tick.”
My husband calls again.
“The gardai are taking this seriously,” I pant, running down the hill.
“That’s because they’ve never seen your Nissan,” he says. Near home, outside the council offices, an employee flags me down.
“Mystery solved,” he says, “your car’s parked around the corner.”
“It can’t be,” I say, “I looked up there on Sunday night.”
“Behind a white van. Easy to miss. The company moved it. Highly unusual. Don’t know why they didn’t tell you.”
I find my car. It is totally covered in a grey film of road dust.
It looks most downhearted, as well it might. I get into the front seat and rest my forehead on the steering wheel.
“Don’t be upset,” I tell my Nissan, “I would steal you.”
My phone pings. I check my screen; missed calls from my husband, Paul and the friends I passed earlier. I look out of the window.
“Our humiliation is complete,” I tell my Nissan.
No one saw my pyjamas falling down, but I still can’t find the Nissan.
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