What an awful, heart-sinking thing it is to lose a purse. I can say this with authority because the trembling horror of it is still with me after my purse went AWOL on Saturday.
I imagine it’s the same if you’re a chap and you lose your wallet, although according to Geoff that’s something that just doesn’t happen. Wallets behave, purses like to go walkabout. It’s a gender thing, then, this unfortunate sense of adventure.
It was certainly very unfortunate when my purse broke free and absented itself from my custody.
Oh, how my heart sank when I reached in my bag for it … and it wasn’t there. Of course it was, it must be … but it wasn’t. I rummaged again, trying to keep the panic out of my voice as I called out to Geoff, “Umm, have you seen my purse?”
“What does it look like?”
“Like a purse. You know, with a zip. It’s a light colour with a pattern, I think.”
It’s strange how the mind – well, this mind, at least – turns blank and mushy when under such pressure.
I decided to go into town and retrace my steps from when I was shopping earlier and from when Geoff and I had had coffee together in a cafe.
The greengrocer hadn’t seen it, the baker hadn’t seen it. This was getting serious. Perhaps I hadn’t just mislaid it but someone had rootled in my cross-body bag (how, exactly?) and taken it.
As I went back into the cafe I could hardly breathe I was so nervous. So much hinged on this: no purse would mean reporting its loss to the police and a great palaver of phone calls to cancel cards; finding it would mean none of that and a vow never to let it out of my sight again.
Pathetically, I had a vision of it waving at me from the table where we’d sat. Our cups were still there, not yet cleared away, but, devastatingly, there was no sign of the purse.
I trudged home, full of despair. I checked every possible hiding place a further 18 times. I just couldn’t believe this was happening because I truly am careful about my belongings – just not quite careful enough, obviously.
For the final time I consulted my memory for a re-run of the morning’s activity. Hang on, I’d forgotten that bit in the cafe where Geoff had persuaded me to move from the table I’d first chosen. Let’s sit round the corner where it’s quieter, he’d suggested. I’d picked my things up and followed him.
Had I, oh please, please, had I abandoned my purse at that first table? I remembered now that I’d had it in my hand because I was going to pay when we ordered our coffees, but Geoff had insisted it was his treat.
Off I went back to the cafe again, this time at high speed and with hope rising in my thumping heart. I screeched to a halt at the table. No purse! I looked underneath and on the chairs and on the adjacent tables. No purse!
This time I did what I should have done when I first returned to the café: I asked a member of staff if anyone had handed in a purse.
“Is it this one,” she asked, holding up my orphaned vagabond.
“Yes, yes!” I whimpered. “Oh, thank you!”
I delivered an embarrassing speech of thanks while I stuffed the blasted thing into the depths of my bag. My relief knew no bounds – and indeed still doesn’t.
Sally Hill's Journal 