I have lost a notebook. It is a large, hard-covered, ring-bound black book, A4 size, that I use for meetings to take notes and minutes if necessary. I last used it on 16th January. I know where and that I drove straight home afterwards. I assumed that I’d brought it in the house and it is only now, when I need it again, that I can’t find it.
I remember where I put it at the lecture, in the theatre on the floor beside me with my handbag on top. I don’t remember not having it when I left, but in any case have phoned the theatre to ask. I have checked the car. Three times (it is too large to miss even once) and the Sage has looked too. I could have put it in the kitchen, I should have put it in the study, I might have left it in the drawing room. I can’t find it. I have also checked the dining room and the cloakroom. I would not have taken it upstairs, I’m not so far gone that I’m even looking there.
I’m a bit screwed without it. Hell and damn. Blast. Whatever expletive comes to mind, please think it, loudly, on my behalf.
I have not given up hope, but I don’t know why not – it’s the simple impossibility of it being lost, I presume. But it’s not here.
I learned by heart, when I was doing French A Level, one short passage of L’Avare, by Molière. It goes something like this (and I’m a bit too agitated to think about spelling, sorry)
‘Où est-il? Où se cache-t-il? Que ferai-je pour le trouver? N’est-il point çi? N’est-il point la? Qui est-il*?”
*At this point, he realises his money is stolen, not lost. But I have no one to blame but myself.
Ro was sympathetic but pretty uninterested, until I mentioned the £20 reward that is offered to whomsoever finds the book. He has gone to look in the car. If, by the way, I find it myself, £20 goes in the church plate tomorrow.