27 March, 2010

To all the accessories I've loved before.

So I had my wallet stolen today. Had it in the pharmacy, went to the grocery store, did our shopping, and by the time I made it to the tills it was gone. It was a fairly new wallet I ordered from the states, had about £60 in cash inside, and all my loyalty cards, debit card, credit card, provisional drivers' license... this is bad, yes. Not quite as bad as losing the pictures. I had my one of my grandmother, my cousin's graduation photos, but the real kicker was the picture of Himself at eleven. It was in a batch his mother was throwing out, and I've had it in my wallet for almost five years. She threw out the others, there are no more.

I don't know if it was the fact I've been sick for a week and still feel rubbish or the shock of going for my wallet and finding it gone, but I was in tears for the better part of two hours. I went straight to the bank after informing the shopping centre's security officer of the theft (and maniacally running from bin to bin to see if someone had taken the cash and dumped the wallet) to cancel my debit and credit cards and found a huge queue at the help desk, and in my panic over someone possibly cleaning out my account as I stood there I bypassed the line and asked (politely, mind you, and still visibly in tears) if there was someone I could speak to because my wallet had just been stolen and I needed to cancel my cards. At this point, what would your response be if you were she? Would it be to look at me as though I were insane and inform me that I had to go to the end of the line? Because that was her response. Luckily, the individuals forming the line took mercy on me and offered sympathetic noises and their places in line, so the screeching harpy at the desk had to deal with me right then instead of fobbing me off. I may have phoned the bank after I dealt with all the business of the theft to file a complaint...

That's right, it wasn't just a visit to the bank that I had to endure. I then had to go to the police station, where the woman at the front desk tried to tell me that I must have dropped the wallet getting something else out of my bag. Yeah, the wallet that on a good day only weighs three hundred pounds and is the size of a shoebox. Accidentally, you see, and without noticing it crush whomever it landed on. I stuck to my guns, overriding what I think was her reluctance to fill out paperwork, after which I got to watch her hunt and peck at the keyboard for half an hour.

I know, I know, I'm grumpy. It's just that between the cash in the wallet, the price of the wallet itself, and the cost of replacing the provisional license, I'm out more than £100. Obviously my discount Cath Kidston bag gives off the impression I can afford to fund roving pickpockets. And thinking of my lovely Loungefly with all my photos still carefully ensconced in the folds lying in a bin covered in coffee cups and bits of takeaway chicken makes me want to cry all over again. So I'm going to stop thinking about it. Right now. No, really. I've finished.


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