In Tyrone, when something goes wrong, they call it a hanlin’, as in a ‘handling’, or a dramatic episode. You could be embroiled in a bit of a hanlin’, or a massive hanlin’, or a sticky enough ‘oul hanlin’, or even a full-on hanlin’ if you’re very unlucky.
One of Fionnuala’s brothers says Hallmark should bring out a range of cards: Sorry for Your Hanlin’, Get Well Soon After Your Hanlin’, or Congratulations on Passing Your Hanlin’.
He’s on to something, and if ever there was someone who gets into hanlin’s, it’s me. But in this instance, it was Fionnuala who landed in the muck.
She’d been over in Newcastle-Upon-Tyne for a hen weekend and arrived home without her phone. Despite appearing to be fully compos mentis, she had no idea where it could be.
She got me to message her friend who had dropped her off and was waiting for her reply when I began the interrogation.
“When did you last use it? You messaged me at 11.26 to say you were heading to the airport and one of the girls had lost a shoe.”
“It was a Jimmy Choo.”
“And you didn’t ring me after that. Did you message anyone else?”
“I don’t know.”
“What were you doing? Sleeping? Drinking?”
“Fabien, shut up. I was chatting with the girls. I had it on the plane I think; in fact, I’m positive.”
Her friend messaged me to say it definitely wasn’t in her car, so the next port-of-call was Belfast International Airport. They were helpful and said there was indeed a phone in lost property, an iPhone, and to call the following morning.
“Tell them it has a pink glittery cover,” Fionnuala whispered. “It’s an iPhone 13,” I said to the stranger.
“But it’s got all the photos. And my numbers and contacts and all my apps.”
“You can get them all back, Fionnuala. It’s the phone itself that’s valuable.” I was half listening, which only made her more rabid. “Oh, I hope to God it’s in the lost property. I pray it’s in the lost property.”
But it wasn’t in the lost property. It was some manky old iPhone 6, but the lad said if it was on the plane, we would have to contact EasyJet.
So, we did that – or, to be clear, I did that – and after a long morning of toing and froing and filling out online forms, the phone wasn’t on the plane either.
“There was a woman’s shoe left behind. Was that your wife’s?” the nice man said.
Then I called Newcastle airport but the girl I spoke to didn’t fill me with optimism. Her Geordie accent was outstanding but impenetrable – she would “‘ave a reet propa canny rumble through the bin. Areet pet?”
“Whey aye man,” I said, as Fionnuala blinked at me with sorrowful eyes.
The Geordie woman called back and I deciphered that the phone wasn’t there. But she would send word around and “mak a belta announcement”.
Fionnuala was becoming distraught. “It’s only a phone, love. We’ll get you another one,” I said.
“No, Fabien. I want my phone back. I love that phone.”
“Jesus, Fionnuala, you lost your phone. Build a bridge and get over it.” I rolled my eyes. Real life wasn’t a movie, it was more a Beckett play.
Then my phone rang and it was a man from WH Smith in Newcastle airport. He had heard the announcement and they had found the phone in the Haribo section. After checking some details with a delirious Fionnuala, he would post it by recorded delivery on his lunch.
“No charge, mam. We are delighted to be a part of making your day wonderful.”
“It was some hanlin’,” Fionnuala later told one of her brothers.
“Deadly hanlin’. A pure hanlin’ just.”