The pain of glove loss

Yes that is one glove. One beautifully soft, calfskin wool-lined glove which I had become quite fond of. The other is probably located under the seat of a train presently running out of Waterloo Station.

Now if you lose one glove, you might as well have lost two, unless you're a Michael Jackson impersonator. This single glove is as useful as a chocolate teapot.

To say I am livid is an understatement. I never lose stuff. I'm one of the people who looks back at where he's been sitting when he gets up to make sure nothing's been left behind. I check under the bed in hotel rooms, even though I would never put anything there in the first place.

Still, out of everything I could have lost at the rugby, I guess one glove is the least painful. If it had been my camera, or my Dunhill hat, I would be having a nervous breakdown.

Although that glove isn't the only thing that went missing. If anyone has seen my marbles, which I was last in possession of just before the third brandy, please return them.

They come in quite handy.

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