Lost and Found

I have a, perhaps, peculiar notion that lost things have a will of their own. Left to their own devices they will re-emerge, “ta-da!”, when the time is right. If a cursory search is unsuccessful, it is quite clear the item in question doesn’t want to be found until it is good and ready. There is little point in wasting any more time on all fours peering under the sofa brandishing a stick. Unless, of course, the escapee doesn’t want to be found at all and then you are doomed. Which pretty much covers most bases. This theory is not laboratory tested and the more cynical of you might conclude it is because I have the concentration of a distracted gnat and have never lost anything of great value. You may have a point.

A couple of months ago, whilst working, I lost an ear bud. At the time I was clearing a row of exhausted ipomoea whose job was to climb a short length of picket fencing just outside JK’s front door. As I tugged, in a controlled and clinical way, a piece of tendril whipped past my head, flicking said ear bud out into the universe. I searched the flower bed, the lawn, under the car, in the green bag, in the compost bin and then I searched each and every one again. Then JK searched the flower bed, the lawn, under the car, in the green bag, in the compost and then, under cover of darkness, armed with a highly suspicious torch, searched again. Nothing. We did not stint on effort and this diligence was not rewarded with success. Never mind. I must be more careful in future and note that black is not an appropriate ear bud colour for a cag-handed gardener.

Two weeks later, I received a text message from Mr K. Miraculously, he had found the absconded ear bud. He had appealed to St Jude, the patron saint of desperate causes, by singing Hey Jude, channeling his inner McCartney. Lo and behold, there was the bud, defiantly in plain sight on the bed that we had both searched intensively. He would have appealed to St Antony of Padua, who is the patron saint of lost things, but didn’t know any Beatles numbers for his incantation. No matter, Jude came up trumps with the goods.

We must now talk about another mislay. Several years ago, on the way from here to there, we stopped for refreshment at a garden centre in Somerset. As luck would have it, there was a car boot sale in progress. I love a car boot sale. After a little browsing, I spotted a wooden long-handled collection box, complete with key stating it has once been used at the Bridgwater Agricultural Society Show. We were meant for each other. Deals were dealt and it came home with me, most likely along with a few plants. I decided the box was to be used to save £2 coins, which when full would surely provide a substantial haul. It has never got to those heady heights and when we left Devon it was emptied and the contents spent on frippery.

Arriving in our new house, I unpacked the box and started my collecting again. However, rather annoyingly, I couldn’t find the key. It will turn up, I thought. Surely I wouldn’t have been slapdash with this much loved possession, I would have put it somewhere safe. Definitely. Intermittent additions were made to the box but still no “ta, da!”. I consoled myself that this must be the best kind of saving, with no chance of withdrawal, except by use of violence. And I am not the destructive type. I held firm to my hypothesis.

A couple of days ago, I invested another couple of coins into the fund. Rather clumsily, whilst moving the treasure trove, I tipped the box onto its side. Needless to say, I was quite surprised when the box opened, spilling its treasure across the floor. Now, I wondered, what is that distinctly un-coinlike, object in the middle of the pile? Only the missing key! It appears that for the last three years, the box hasn’t been locked at all, available for delving at any time. More than that, the key hadn’t been lost but somewhere very safe. There is little hope for me, but much hope for my theory of the lost and found.