Thomas arrived back from work in foul mood, complaining that he'd probably lost valuable client and inferring by his tone that I had something to do with it.

Since I had probably damaged relationship with one of my editors (by failing to meet lunchtime deadline for piece I was writing), as had spent best part of my morning searching for Thomas's mobile phone, I ignored his complaint and tried to ignore the mood, while asking pointedly whether his phone had materialised. It had but he didn't seem very happy about it.

The day had got off to a reasonable start when I decided to get up half an hour earlier than usual (while Rugrats still asleep) so I could get up and dressed and ready for day ahead uninterrupted.

I did this so that by the time I had taken everyone to school etc I would be ready to get down to finishing article, which had to be finished by lunchtime.

Had abandoned the theory that you get more done if you don't get dressed but stay in bed in night-clothes, after trying it out last week and falling asleep, leaving work unfinished and children at school.

So, having made myself a coffee, switched on the ansaphone (so I couldn't be interrupted) and called up the half-finished piece on computer, I was ready to get on with it.

Then the phone rang. From former boot cupboard turned office I could hear ansaphone in sitting room clicking into action, followed by muffled (two doors away) beep and then the muffled, decidedly anxious tones of Thomas. The message ended and immediate my mobile rang.

Instinctively I answered it and heard less muffled voice of spouse demanding to know where I was. I told him I was at home, trying to get on with my work. "Where are you?" I reciprocated.

Thomas said he was at work trying to get on with his work but appeared to have left his mobile phone at home and needed it as he would shortly be taking important client, who needed to be impressed, out to lunch - but needed to remain contactable.

So, ignoring the fact that my deadline was probably as important as Thomas's client meeting, I dutifully toured the back of the sofa, various jacket pockets, the dumping table etc. but failed to find the phone.

So, rang it to see if it was lurking somewhere I couldn't see and after quite a long time (during which I ran up and down the house but couldn't hear ringing anywhere) the phone told me that the person I was calling was not responding and to please try later.

I tried again one more time - just in case he'd left it in the attic when putting Rugrats to bed previous night - and started up stairs to their room when the phone was answered by slightly breathless Thomas.

"Your phone is in your hand," I told him. "Where are you?"

Thomas replied that he was in the bottom of a wheelie bin, which had begun ringing as he was standing out in the street having a cigarette.

It was then that he'd remembered his phone had been on his desk, with a load of old papers which he'd put in the bin before he left the previous night.

Since then the office bins had been emptied and their contents transferred to larger wheelie bins outside, including Thomas's phone which he must have accidentally thrown out with them.

It was while we were in the midst of this conversation, and Thomas was struggling to climb out of the mountain of rubbish and over the edge of the wheelie bin, that the important client arrived at his office, ready to be impressed ...