Last week, I was forced to get a new bank card because a man in a Russian cellar who had run out of vodka was trying to steal money from my bank account, 20c at a time. I didn’t realise vodka was so cheap in Russia. That explains a lot of things.
My bank man said the small amount stolen was probably a sign of bigger things to come.
He was uncannily correct.
After a few days with no cash, I found myself at yet another theatre show interval needing to purchase a new bottle of 2008 Egon Muller Spatlese Riesling because the bottle I had bought proved to have a rather large hole in it. The damn stuff kept running out.
Anyway, I held up the empty Riesling bottle and dangled it at the Chief Gardener from across the room packed with theatre lovers wearing black and fanning themselves with programs.
The Chief Gardener was chatting to an annoyingly tall blond German fellow with a ridiculously strong jawline.
She serenely pointed at her handbag on a chair without taking her eyes off the strong jawline.
Suddenly, I remembered an encounter with a similar handbag many years ago, and I realised the horror was still there, buried but now resurfacing.
I walked slowly to the chair. I looked down at the handbag and began to tremble.
I opened the centre of the bag, and a yawning chasm appeared like a black hole in which quantum physics was in charge. I rummaged in the dark and felt keys and pens and more keys, soft squishy things, cards and notepads and something hard with a flip top, but no money.
I did more rummaging. Zipped pockets, open pockets, pockets inside pockets, James Bond pockets, Kill Bill pockets, pockets disguised as purses and handbags inside handbags.
No money.
I realised people were stopping their conversations and turning to look at me.
I was about to drop the bag and run when my fingers felt a purse buried at the bottom of an Agent 99 pocket coated with stealth bomber paint to render it invisible.
I stifled a cry.
I flipped open the purse and stared.
No money.
Just more pockets.
I gave up and walked over to the Chief Gardener and handed her the purse like a defeated dog. If I had a tail, it would have been smacking my legs.
The Chief Gardener flipped open the purse and handed me a $50 note with a derisory Lauren Bacall smile.
I walked up to the bar, promising myself I would never again rummage a woman’s handbag in public.
Unless, of course, I ran out of Egon Muller Spatlese.
I might get a money belt for that.
John Lewis is a former journalist at The News.
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