The lost weekend — 14 Comments

  1. I absolutely loath losing anything so you have my sympathies. Years ago, herself gave me a really good watch as a present and it became a part of my wrist ever since. Then one day last year, it wasn't there. The house had to ripped apart, the car dismantled and the kids searched and interrogated but still no fucking watch. Then my religious sister told me the name of some Saint and the deal was that I go to the church, find his statue and slip a fiver in the box. In my defense, I loved that watch.


    Imagine my surprise when I returned from the church and decided to change my clothes to go out, I found the gold piece. For some unknown reason I'd put it in a shoe and stuffed the socks in after it. It was in the bottom of the wardrobe all of the time.


    If you like, I can inquire again which Saint needs the money?

    • Could you do me a great favour?  Could you just have a quick check of your shoe to see if there is a nice pipe and a leather pouch of tobacco in it?

      The worst thing about losing something is that the search doesn't end for days or even weeks.  I am still convinced it will turn up somewhere strange, like in the coal hole or the attic.  Maybe I should dredge the lake?

  2. My sympathies: losing stuff is frustrating beyond belief, yet I manage it weekly.

    Just yesterday I was out with my normal foursome and hit a tee shot 245 (est.) meters straight down the fairway. I emphasize here –  straight down the fairway. We all saw the ball land in the fairway and stop rolling. It was there, damnit.

    Yet when we strolled toward that spot, the ball was simply gone, as though it had never existed: we saw no rodent snatch it; there were no sinkholes in the fairway, much less wormholes to another universe laingy about; and certainly no alligator had poached it (you have to be a certain kind of crazy to golf in Florida; our group is not that crazy.) The ball was lost nonetheless.

    As I say, this happens at least once a week.

    It's enough to make one take up smoking (again.)

    {p.s. – I did look in my golf bag for your pipe and weed – none of it. I did, however, find an old half-pack of spanish cigerellos from my own excessive youth. Sorry – I know that's not all that helpful.}


    • I'm constantly losing things but usually they are things I only need occasionally, and my philosophy is to forget about them and they'll turn up eventually, which they usually do.

      Important things like car keys and pipe are always kept in specific places so I rarely lose them.  This time is different because of the short time-span [pub to house] and the definite path I had taken.  Very strange.

      Thanks for looking in the bag.  That's one less place I have to search.

  3. Saint Anthony.  He's the guy you're supposed to pray to to find your missing items.  I remember losing something as a kid and my mom telling me to say a prayer to St. Anthony.  So get amongst it.


    • That sounds like the lad.  You wouldn't happen to have his email address handy by any chance?

        • Yep, St Anthony’s the one you want.  And no, it doesn’t even have to involve a trip to church, a bribe or even a prayer – just a straightforward, polite mental request will do it.  Works for me – but I do always make sure to say thanks afterwards, and mean it.

          Rather more practically – are you sure you checked the right coat? Do you have a couple which are similar?  And – err – how many pints did you actually imbibe during the evening?  I’ve often found items “put away” in highly unusual places (oo-er, matron!) the morning after an enjoyable evening …

          • Gee, this thread's wandered into religion neatly, hasn't it? Next thing someone will be suggesting we go on pilgrimages to holy wells to 'find' lots of lost coins dropped there by individuals grateful for a cure to some ailment or other. Is there a cure for losing things?

          • I had a sufficiency of pints, but was able to find the keyhole in the dark which is a reasonable test of sobriety?

  4. O.K. as a last resort I should try having a word with St Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases (according to the nuns who taught me, and which I was one…..a hopeless case that is, not a nun!)

    I have to say he didn't help me much though.

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