So how did you spend your Friday evening? Hanging out with friends, drinking cocktails? Relaxing on the sofa with a good film or book? I’m going to take a guess that you did not spend your evening scrabbling around on the floor, desperately searching for your missing wedding ring.
This mishap came about because I have a habit of taking off my engagement ring when I wash my hands (moonstone + water + soap = not a good combination), and when I do that I tend to grab the wedding ring as well. On Friday night I put them into my jumper pocket to keep them safe (ha!) before completely forgetting about them. Fast forward to me taking off said jumper in the bedroom, only for both rings to fly out of the pocket in a graceful arc, before landing on our bedroom floor with ominous rolling sounds. And we don’t have a carpeted floor, we have the original Victorian wooden floorboards. With original Victorian cracks.
I tried to be discreet and find them before S came in as I didn’t think this uncoordinated action would go down well with him, but sadly my exclamation of “shit!” as they soared through the air meant he was well aware of my stupidity. Luckily I found my engagement ring after a few seconds, but I just could not see the wedding ring.
S brought in the big guns – two powerful night lights for cycling, which have the strongest beam known to man. Sadly, a careful combing of each floorboard only revealed the fact that despite regular vacumming, we need to clean this room a lot more thoroughly than we currently do. (The dust bunnies that were illuminated in all their dirty glory were the size of small hares.)
It was starting to become clear that the ring had gone through the floorboards and I was starting to panic a little. By this time it was close to midnight and S, reasonably, proposed we leave it to the morning to pull the boards up. I agreed with this but wanted visual proof that the ring was actually down there and hadn’t fallen through any further. I know this is stupid; all that’s below is the living room ceiling and the ring had nowhere to go, and from previous times when the boards have been up, I know there is crap down there that’s gone nowhere for the last 120 years, but irrationally I just wanted to see it before we went to bed. S is so patient and lovely that he agreed, so we commenced a careful investigation of each floor crack, eyes close to the floor, shining the torch beam into the miniscule spaces.
After ten minutes of careful searching and the occasional sneeze from me (see, we definitely need to vacuum more), I saw a glint of silver through a board. S confirmed that yes, it was my ring and yes, it would be safe til morning, so could we now please go to sleep? After marking the spot with a piece of gaffa tape we retired to bed, only for me to fret (irrationally once more) that somehow, between sleep and the morning, the ring would take a kamikaze death leap from the floor and disappear forever. (Please tell me I am not the only one who has thoughts like this.)
Thankfully, following a complex operation involving a trip to the loft to get the drill, unscrewing 14 screws in one board, discovering the final one wouldn’t come out, putting them all back in and starting again on the neighbouring board, I triumphantly fished out the ring; a little bit dirty but none the worse for its adventure.
My poor ring. Less than a year into its life it cracked in two (although, unlike this display of ineptness, that was definitely not my fault), and less than a week after coming back from the repair for that mishap, it then journeys through the floorboards to spend the night in a dusty ledge.
So the lesson to be learned from this story? I need to take more care with precious things. And perhaps consider carpet in the bedroom.