I used to lose several items a week. It was to do with being young, part of the psychopathology of everyday life, then it stopped. Maybe you stop losing small things around the time you start losing big ones – parents, countries, friends – but I haven’t lost a bank card in ten years and I used to lose ten a year. In my twenties, I was forever dropping keys and leaving coats in cloakrooms, or spectacles on bars, and I still wonder if the things I’ve lost would better describe me than the things I kept. The other day, I found a shabby old ledger at an antiques fair and the thing has been keeping me up at night. It’s the Lost Property Register 1928-91 from Glasgow Central Station. Every page is inked with life, if by life we’re talking about the things that come and go (but mainly go).
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