Monday, 31 August 2015

Where on earth is…

Times are tough.
Life is getting rougher and people are getting meaner.
I understand it completely. I understand empathy is a tiring, difficoult and most of times unrewarding exercise.
Yet it still happens, every now and then, that a small little event happens and I'm completely dumbfounded and speechless.

Got back to my flat in Torino on Friday evening, as usual.
Well, truth to be told it’d been some Fridays I haven’t been in Torino, so I expected to find some ads and bills waiting for me in the post box. And I was right:

Gas bill, Ikea catalogue and a letter with important news from a funeral parlour.

There’s something off. And no, I’m not referring to the essential information that the funeral parlour felt in need to provide me. Something else’s off. Or better, something is not where it’s supposed to be.
I look at my flat door. I look down. I look up. Down again, up again and down once more for good measure.

Fuck! Oh pardon my French.
I meant F**k!

Some fucktard stole my doormat. I didn’t want to believe it at first. So I texted my mum because, well, in that very moment the most logical explanation I could come up with was that my parents swung by my flat feeling the uncontrollable need to retrieve my doormat and store it inside.
My mother didn’t even bother to reply to the message. Yet, even today, I still think that my idea's somehow more plausible that somebody stealing a doormat, ok?

I used to own a normal doormat. I’m not even sure it’s the right adjective. Until recently I've never really contemplated about the nature and possible descriptions of a doormat. I lack words to proper describe my-once-doormat. It was nothing fancy, it wasn’t a diamond-encrusted pimp-my-doormat. Nor it was an iDoormat with some revolutionary HomeKit functionality or internet of things features.
It was a standard Ikea doormat.

Yet somebody nicked it away.
Who did it?
A neighbour? The cleaning lady? A random doormat thieft? Carmen Sandiego?

I don’t know and I’d be very interested in finding it out because it could help me answering the question that has been bothering me the most in this whole matter: why would anybody bother stealing a doormat? Pettiness? Need? Boredom? Too lazy to go to Ikea? Cleptomania?

Part of me, however, is secretly harboring the idea it truly was Carmen. I will never know where my doormat is, but I could still say I knew where on earth Carmen Sandiego was.