God, I'm a clever bastard, aren't I? Starting off with a reference to Proust. In French. I should be on QI or something.
For those of you who don't speak French, this means Searching For Lost Sunglasses - which is what I seem to spend most of my time doing these days. I am now convinced The Pink House is riddled with pan-dimensional anti-matter holes through which any object smaller than, say, a packet of Findus Crispy Pancakes, will always fall.
Where does this stuff go? I mean really - where could it possibly be? I'd like to think there's a TARDIS-like room somewhere containing everything ever lost - like Shergar, my Lando Calrissian figure or Chris Langham's external hard-drive.
The problem, you see, is not theft. It's because due to the sheer volume of objects in the room of a backpacker.......rucksacks, guidebooks, towels, iPod chargers, pants, shorts, trainers, cutlery, deoderant, instant noodles, international adapters...... the chances of you losing one of these objects in the melee of bric-brac increases exponentially. Socks go missing most often. Followed by phone chargers. Then toothbrushes. Then sunglasses. Occasionally stuff turns up, looking like it's a had a hell of a week jammed down the side of the bed, or stuffed down the arm of the wrong coat, but more often than not, you're left scratching your head.
I haven't done too bad so far. Whilst other people have lost passports and wallets and phones among the debris, the most precious thing I have misplaced is my sexy Samsung USB Drive containing around 200 photos. Luckily, some sets had already been burned to CD, some were still on Chris's computer, and the world beating, David Bailey-baiting photos of the SH Bridge I took can always be taken again.
Let's hope I don't lose my dignity. Actually, it's probably too late.