Last week, amid the first of the autumn downpours, I did the most satisfying of rainy-day activities: I had a clear-out. And at the bottom of my wardrobe, underneath dusty old insoles and a dishevelled wig from a 2018 fancy dress party, I found my wallet.
What used to be a slate-grey Marc Jacobs purse (admittedly, quite ugly to begin with) had turned green with mould – the zip all rusty and the leather peeling off. But inside was a whole trove of treasures (along with a lot of pointless crap): a tiny birthday card from my niece, a business card from “Bob the sander”, a pebble from Brighton beach, a loyalty card for a since closed-down coffee shop, an old ID (egregious side-fringe and all), a receipt from a thankfully not-closed-down pub, an Oyster card, a hand-drawn map of Dublin scrawled on the back of some Christmas wrapping paper, and a grand total of 29 pence.
