An extensive sweep of the flat confirms my wallet’s missing. As is the norm in such circumstances, I refuse to accept it has been lost or stolen. Instead, I cunningly lie the blame at the door of the person who recently invited me out for dinner.
‘It was here,’ I insist, waving my hand about airily, in the manner of a 18th Century French courtier. ‘You must have tidied it away.’
‘No,’ she sighs. ‘You must have lost it.’
‘Never!’ I proclaim, punching the air defiantly, in the manner of a 18th Century French revolutionary.
‘Checked your pockets?’