Picture the scene.
You're up on the roof terrace of a pub in Kings Cross with some friends, enjoying the last couple of hours of sunshine and demolishing fruit-stuffed glasses of Pimms as the day slips seamlessly into balmy night.
After an hour or so, you glance down at the bench next to you. Then you look at the floor. You glance nervously to the opposite seats (maybe you put it over there?) and for reasons unknown, start patting your pockets- as if you normally pop your handbag in your jeans for safe keeping.
"What are you looking for?" says a friend, having seen your eyes step up their frantic search behind you and on adjoining tables.
"Oh, just my handbag..." you reply, all casual, like.
Others join in the search.
"It's definitely not here."
"No" you sigh, acknowledging what you knew when you first looked down. "It's gone."
That's annoying, you think, the Pimms and Prosecco softening the blow slightly as you borrow a phone and start cancelling things. Someone alerts the bar staff, another friend tops up your glass and two others go and rifle through the bins outside, returning with three other stolen credit cards in their hands; none of them yours.
Someone tops up your glass.
You mentally list everything that was in the bag: your everyday survival kit.
Wallet (no cash these days, thankfully), debit cards, drivers licence, National Insurance card. Boots, Tesco, Necter, spare SIM card. Diary, phone, Oyster card. Bus pass. Bits and bobs you keep close. Moleskine diary, your plans for the next few months, the ideas written in the back. Your shit HTC phone that you actively urged people to steal regularly, but feel a bit lost without now that it's gone.
On your way back from checking the toilets, the calm feeling is shattered by the realisation that you've also lost the key card for your block. The keys to your flat. Was your address written anywhere?
Your glass is filled again.
The bank arrange for emergency cash, you get a taxi home. Your housemate lets you in.
The list of things you've lost continues to rack up the next morning as you start your day. Earphones. Mac cover-up. Dior lipstick.
Throughout it all, you're calmer than expected. A friend sums it up nicely with a cautious question.
"Urm, was it...it wasn't....it wasn't...The Bag, was it?"
"No, no. Thank God."
"Phew."
"I know." you sigh, hangover creeping in as you write down all the things you have to do before you can get to work. "Every cloud."
7 comments:
Oh matey, that SUCKS. Have you reported it to the police? When I had my purse nicked, I ended up getting it back... There is still hope.
Yeah, reported it yesterday evening. Don't hold out much hope of getting anything back, but you never know...
Oh balls that's not good. I had to rescue my bosses handbag that was getting eyed up the other week because she had left it on a chair when she went out to smoke. Much worse to have it taken when you were right there
I'm now going to make a contents list so I know what I need to cancel at all times.
Oh man, I'm sorry. What a crappy way to end a delightful night.
On a side note, I wish I could drink some Pimms!
Oh, that is all kinds of rubbish. Fingers crossed something good happens and you recover it.
"Pickpockets operate in this area." fucking bastards.
Aww poor Jo :( I dont even want to think about someone snatching my bag (almost start palpatating - if there is such a word) so am very much in admiration of your calm stance.
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