A Lost Opportunity
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published Saturday May 4, 2013

In our house, I am the finder of lost things. Except if the lost thing is the repair kit for the coffee machine. Sealed in a plastic bag, these are special tools: a weird-looking tube and a yellow brush, a metal thingy with a hole punctured at one end and a perforated paper cone.

They are also implements so vital to the espresso-making process that I’ve never seen them before. My husband says otherwise, seeing as it’s me who has lost them.

Three weeks ago, as I was making beds, our Breville coffee machine began gurgling uncomfortably. As it choked down the last of the Costa Rican Arabicas, my newly woken (de-caffeinated) husband yelped from the kitchen. I ran to his side. We stood by the coffee machine, helpless. It shook uncontrollably, then exhaled a weak steamy breath and was still. I thought I heard a faint death rattle in its metal throat, then silence. With no trace of emotion my husband turned to me: “Quick – get the cleaning bag, the coffee machine’s croaked.”

The bag wasn’t hiding in the big red bowl on the kitchen bench kept precisely for mystery objects. Nor was it at the bottom of the pantry, or in the garage (you never know). For three days in a row, my husband drove at sunrise the 200m to the corner café to satisfy his craving. On his return, only slightly less agitated, he demanded: “Find the damn repair kit, blossom.” And so my hunt began anew.

Clearly my powers of encyclopedic placement had let me down. All that memorizing of the precise whereabouts of each item belonging to five people in one house had come to nothing. Suddenly one see-through zip-lock bag was as lost as 18 minutes of Watergate tape.

However, I did find the allen key for dismantling the spare bed, the commemorative gold coin we got sucked into buying at the Bell Tower and an unclaimed Medicare receipt from 2011.

In our family, there are two types of searches for lost things:  there is a “boy look” and a “girl look.” When the man of the house misplaces the keys to his ute, he swivels his head from left to right before announcing: “Nup, they’re not here.”

This constitutes a “boy look.” It does not involve looking under or behind things or anywhere above or below eye level.. 

My bloke, when desperate, will ramp up a “boy look” by taking one step in each direction from the kitchen bench before accusing: “What have you done with my keys!”

That’s when I can swoop in for a “girl look.” I shift sheaths of unpaid Telstra bills to their rightful file and drawer and put magazines with Ray Martin on the cover into the recycling at last. I clear my husband’s desk of stretched out paper clips, discarded envelopes and a pagoda of Post-it notes. Along the way I also find eldest son’s missing pocket knife and joy! – the plug for the bath.

Eventually I discover the ute’s keys chilling on the third shelf of the fridge: “Oooh, that’s right!” he says “I put them on that six-pack so I wouldn’t forget the beers.”

 “Girl looks” are imperative when living with teenage boys. My man-child can’t remember what day it is, let alone where he put his lunch box: actually nowhere. It’s still in his school bag on the porch, lid off, with a few crusts and a whiffy yoghurt container signposting a free meal for passing vermin.

Sometimes it’s me that feels like the lost thing – picking my way through the jumble of other peoples’ stuff trying to restore order – no place for me. My carefree days are behind me, but I’m not yet old enough to need taking care of. Instead, I am sitting uncomfortably in the embrace of middle age – needed instantly when tummies are hungry or sock drawers need a refill. Why can’t I be wanted as much as needed?

I like to pretend I know where everything is. Even the children. And if something is too important to lose, I put it in the only place I’m guaranteed to find it: in my bra. Recently, while having a (womanly) check up, my doctor said: “Pop up here on the bed and take off your bra and we’ll be done in no time.” So I unsnapped my bra and a train ticket, two one-dollar coins and the lens cap for my camera dropped onto the floor. (Best to take photos dressed in something with pockets.)

So now a month has passed and a new repair kit has been delivered: $68.95. The coffee machine has spluttered back to life and the household is re-caffeinated by 7am.

But last night I had a dream, a dream so real I woke up and my brain was instantly alert. Suddenly, I remembered where I’d put that indispensable zip-lock bag with all the coffee parts: in the bin. The same place I put all useless-looking tubes, metal-thingys and strange paper cones. But that’s a guilty secret best left between you and me.