Anyone who knows me well will characterize me as many things (slow eater, kitchen failure, generally long), but one of the things I am most famous for is my ability to lose any possession I have the privilege of owning. I’m not even sure why I bother acquiring smartphones and the like because more often than not a couple of months down the line they will have disappeared and I’ll be back to the shit brick (the most reliable object on the planet). And if I’m not losing things, I’m probably breaking them. My car is an obvious example of this although you could blame that on its elderly and temperamental nature; but there’s also my laptop, speakers, and basically every technological gadget I have. Wouldn’t life be simpler without technology, eh. (Alright, grandma…)
But this weekend was a new all time low for me. Not only did I lose my phone. Not only did I lose my keys. Not only did I lose my purse and all associated items and valuable cards. Oh no. I also lost someone else’s bank card. Losing my own belongings obviously just isn’t good enough for me; I’ve now taken the liberty of losing the belongings of others. You’re welcome. Don’t ask me how it happened, because I couldn’t tell you. All I know is one minute I was having a great night dancing away, getting drunk, ladladlad and all that jazz. And the next minute I was standing outside in my coat arguing with a very stubborn and angry bouncer. Only recently have I reflected that I was most likely kicked out which would explain why I wasn’t allowed back in. However at the time I was adamant that the bouncer was being most unfair. Drunk, me?! Never!
Needless to say I was unsuccessful, so having no keys or phone I did the best thing anyone could do in that situation. I walked to stokes croft by myself. Made a gangsta friend on the way and had a lovely chat. All things considered I’m not entirely sure how I made it to the party alive, but luckily all the rapists had decided to have a night off so I turned up belonging-less and managed to locate my friends who had been calling my nonexistent phone for the past hour. I was just drunk enough not to let the old druggies and crazy people that had inhabited the party freak me out and managed to forget about the fact that I had left my life in lounge. This became suddenly apparent again when I realised I had no chance of getting into my flat.
So, as is the way when life’s belongings are lost, I had no choice but to force myself upon my friend’s sofa (which I was secretly happy about because it’s the comfiest sofa in the world). The next morning, lounge saved my life. Having tried endlessly to get in contact with them, the grumpy Polish doorman finally decided to answer the phone and convey the amazing news we were all hoping for – they found my bag! My possessions were alive, another person’s bankcard was alive, and my friends could get rid of me. Everyone wins. But not until 9:30. They don’t win yet. No, they had to deal with my hungover self generally being a burden and only moving from the comfiest sofa in the world when absolutely necessary for the rest of the day.
All in all, for a weekend that promised a lot of things lost and not much gained, it turned out to be surprisingly great. Belongings were recovered, fun was had, crazy parties unfolded, and I watched Antz. What more can you ask for. Somehow though, I really don’t think this experience will help me learn the lesson of how to hold on to possessions. The whole time my bag was lost, was I worrying? Not at all! I was bonding with gangsters and raving in basements. I must have known, deep down, that everything was safe so there was no point in worrying. That sixth sense I have…