At Waterloo Station today, I went to Lost Property in the vain hope that my lost iphone might have been handed in. I say vain, because I have registered the loss on-line and they send a notification if the item is found – and there has been no such notification.
At the Waterloo Lost Property kiosk – which is possibly the least glamorous counter space in London and being in the bowels of the station and next to some exhaust ducting, happens to stink also – I gave the clerk the details. Which train, from which station, date, time and a description of my phone. Clearly, not as invested in my phone as I am, he made some notes and then disappeared, leaving me waiting and careful not to touch anything.
After ten minutes he re-appeared with my phone although this is not evident from his facial expression. The excitement of repatriating people with prized possessions has lost its allure long ago for this guy.
I recognise instantly that it is my phone. The grubby case being the giveaway and I am jubilant. If it wasn’t for the glass screen, I would have reached over and hugged him. Actually, this is not true. I am happy, but not delirious.
I confirm my ownership by announcing my unlock code. The screen comes to life and even then, not a flicker from him.
‘I regret to inform you…’ He begins and I wonder where he might be going? It’s clearly my phone but is there some arcane law about to quell me? ‘…that there is a ten pound charge for this service…’
What a relief. Clearly he has no idea who I am and that I am good for a tenner.
I pay up and I thank him profusely. Yeah, whatever. Don’t be such a knob next time, he might as well have said.
And I guess he’s right but so easily done eh?
And finally, a big thank you to all the honest people out there. Nice work. London really is the greatest city in the world.
