The last few days
have been completely overshadowed by losing my wedding ring.
It’s strange how
used to wearing it I’ve become and how weird I feel without it. My hands feel
strangely naked (which is also the name of a magazine I subscribe to) as I type this. My anxiety hasn’t abated since I first noticed it was missing
on Friday morning, and what makes it worse is I’m constantly reminded I haven't got it
every time I pick something up, like a glass, or a mug, or my phone, or a
guinea pig; I hadn’t realised how much it was in my awareness on a day-to-day basis; without it, I’m a gibbering jewellery-less
wreck.
My one
reassurance is the fact I’m 99.9% sure I took it off at home. I know I was
wearing it at last Thursday’s Mostly Comedy as I would have felt hugely self-conscious
without it. I seldom remove it in public and only briefly; usually to
put some hand cream on or to engage in an extra-marital affair (with a
guinea pig owner; see above).
I must have taken
it off in my front room when I got home after packing up the club. I first
noticed it was missing when I woke up on the sofa in the early hours of the day
after the gig, but it was late, so I told myself I’d find it in the morning -
except I didn’t. Since then, I’ve been methodically scouring the living room in
concentrated bursts, moving furniture as I go, but to no avail; I’m
beginning to run out of ideas as to where it is.
If it doesn’t
turn up, does that make me a bachelor? I’ll have to check the small-print on
my marriage certificate. The only positive is I can now remove a turkey's giblets at a moment’s notice, but you’d be surprised how rarely this comes up; I knew
I should have worked in poultry.
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