It Started With A Tweet(26)

I might have gone along with the plan of detoxing when we were in London, when I felt as if I had to escape the Twitter backlash, but now, after a proper night’s sleep, I’ve realised that it was a mad thing to do – surrendering my lifeline to a well for all eternity .?.?. well, a week.

If I got it out, I could hide it in one of the derelict barns and then check on it occasionally. It’s not like I’m addicted and can’t live without it, it’s just that I could be harming my career prospects by not being connected. I’d obviously only check my emails to see if Andrea was begging for me to come back, or if I was being headhunted now people knew I’d gone. I’d probably send Erica the odd little message too – I miss my bestie. But that would be it. I would be really good and wouldn’t do any general surfing and I’d even forgo looking at Facebook.

I stride purposefully up to the well and look down.

I can’t really see anything other than the fact that it’s gloomy. If only I had a torch, but it’s on my bloody phone .?.?.

I bend down and pick up a loose stone from the ground and throw it down the well. Am I supposed to make a wish, or does that only work with a coin? I wish for my phone back just to be on the safe side. It takes a couple of seconds before it hits the bottom.

What the hell does that mean? That it’s quite far down?

On the plus side it didn’t make a splash, so at least Rosie was right; there’s no water.

I look around for something to help me and I see a big stick propped up against a barn. Maybe I can hook it round the end of the bucket and somehow pull it up?

It takes a little bit of angling to get the stick in, and as I lower it down, I have to lean myself in.

‘Bloody hell,’ I shout, as my scarf gets tangled in the side of the well and it tugs around my throat. I try and hold on to my precious stick in one hand and loosen the scarf with the other without strangling myself. It comes free from my neck so I lean back over the well, this time digging my elbows in so that I don’t fall in too. Although, at least if I did, I’d be reunited with my phone .?.?. I weigh up the broken bones and pain caused by said fall versus the relief of my reunification with my iPhone. In the end, I pull myself back out, as I wouldn’t get any signal down there anyway.

‘Don’t worry, phone,’ I say down to it. ‘I’ll get you soon.’

I’ll have to wait and think of a better plan to get it out of its resting place.

In the meantime, Rosie said she’d be at least an hour, which might just give me time to get to the village before she returns.

Now that I’ve been thinking about logging on, I can’t seem to think of anything else, and now I’m desperate to go online. The village looked far too small to have an Internet cafe, but maybe there’s a B. & B. with a computer terminal or someone might lend me a phone. I’m clutching at straws, but I feel as if I have to at least try.

I shove my ruined scarf in my pocket, deciding that perhaps a crumbly old farm in Cumbria is not the best place to wear it, and I set off up the drive.

Despite it being dry today, it’s pretty muddy underfoot, and I have to concentrate to see where I’m putting my feet. The espadrilles are doing a pretty rubbish job at stopping the stones from wedging themselves right into the soles of my feet. Not to mention the fact that they’re getting really dirty. I bend down and try to scuff a bit of mud off the pink suede.

‘Bugger it,’ I say, wishing I’d picked more practical footwear. I don’t think there’s any amount of suede cleaner that is going to get these back to their baby-pink hue. Damn Rosie. Messing with my phone is one thing, but my shoes are quite another.

I’m just coming up to standing when I hear a rumble growing louder, and it takes me a second to realise what’s making it. I jump out of the way as a quad bike comes flying over a hill in my direction, splattering my jeans with mud.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ I shriek. First my scarf, then my espadrilles, and now my 7 For All Mankind jeans. It’s a bloody good job that I don’t have my phone for this; there’d be no #blessed words written about this outfit.

‘Sorry,’ says the man, stopping in front of me.

He might have a helmet on but I’d recognise that beard anywhere – it’s Big Foot from yesterday.

‘I don’t expect people to be walking up here. Got lost, have you?’

‘No, I know exactly where I’m going,’ I say snappily.

‘Right,’ he says looking me and my mud splatters up and down. I can see a slight smirk on his face as if he’s pleased with his handiwork. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

He puts his hands back on the handlebars and goes to pull away when I realise that I’m shooting myself in the foot – if he’s off out, perhaps he can take me with him.

I look at the quad. I’m not entirely sure if you can ride on it pillion like a motorbike, but I’m sure I could perch somewhere.

‘Wait! Can you take me to the village? I need to get there urgently,’ I say.

‘Not going that way.’ He shakes his head, revs the engine and he’s off, leaving me to jump out of the way as mud flies in his wake.

‘How bloody rude was that,’ I say out loud.

I start to reach into my pocket to rant about him in a tweet to make myself feel better, but my phone’s not bloody there.