I got home by 6 because I had been at the office in Victoria and caught a train home. (Can’t wait until I can kiss the tube goodbye.) Go to the store, grab some food, do the self-checkout, go to pay and. . . no credit cards. Where are my credit cards? OH MY FUCKING GOD WHERE ARE MY FUCKING CREDIT CARDS YOU FUCKING MOTHER FUCKER.

I didn’t say that, but I did think it. . .

Leave the food incurring the annoyance and wrath of the Sainsbury’s Lady and run out the door and hop on the tube to go all the way back to central London, back to Soho, not praying but something resembling it, shredding my fingernails to the quick.

First stop the Starbucks in Leicester Square.

I’velostmycreditcardsandthiswasthelastplaceiuseditthismorninganddidacardcasethatsays

I gesture with my hands making the international symbol of a card case

acardcasethatsaystrailerparktrashitlookslikeapulpnovelfromthe40sgetturnedin?

The Manager stares at me.

I gesture with my hands making the international symbol of a card case.

Did cards get turned in?

No.

Off I go to work, pushing over American tourists and chavs that dare get in my way. Get to the office, open my file cabinet and–

It’s not there.

I was resigned to this. I knew this was going to happen.

I sit down preparing myself to pull everything out of the drawer obsessively and there it is.

My card case. With the cards inside.
There was much rejoicing.

Back home, get food, avoid Sainsbury’s Lady in time to eat, relax, blog and watch The Daily Show. . .

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