Much as I hate to admit it, I read Zoe Williams column in the paper at the weekend, where she admits to almost considering searching for her keys on Google, because she’s tried everything else, and is desperate. Crazy huh? Well, that’s our Zoe. Jesus. Anyway, I have been known to have trouble in this department. So much so that Mairi laughed out loud when I sent her this picture, saying it was me.
And just in case anyone stumbles on this post after Googling “Where are my keys?” (and lets face it, noone comes here deliberately), I thought I’d list a few suggestions as to where your keys might be.
If you have any suggestions you think should be added,
start your own fucking website contact me!
Q. Where are my keys?
A. Are your keys…
- on the kitchen table?
- by the bed?
- in the bed?
- in the pocket of your other jacket?
- in the other pocket of your bag?
- buried in the laundry basket?
- in the outside of the front door, despite the fact that you live in South West London?
- in your hand?
- where you left them?
- under the sofa?
- in the car?
- sellotaped to your forehead?
Bear in mind, all of these answers spawn an additional subquestion/statement cycle, which is
“Are you sure? Have you Checked? Well, check again. No need to shout at me, you twat”