Beats and burglary

It seems that we generally use blogs for two things. The first is showing off our incredibly good taste - by linking to things that other people have created - and the second is having a bit of a moan.

This post falls into that second category.

Last night, at an 80s party on K Rd, my handbag was stolen. I wasn't mugged, no - it was taken from the careful hiding spot I had chosen on the floor behind a speaker. You might say this was unwise, but it was heavy and compromising my dance to Hall and Oates. I couldn't go for that, no, so I threw the thing down.

Big mistake, it turned out. Half an hour later the bag was gone, along with my phone, wallet, passport, and cash. (The latter probably amounted to half a bus fare, but still.)

From that point on I was a bit of a sad-sack. I spent the next two hours scanning the bar, biting my nails, swaying half-heartedly to Michael Jackson. I tried to picture the dirty thief, wondering if he even was even going to wear his new Deadly Ponies deerskin handbag.

I say 'he', because the bag actually showed up in the boys toilets after I'd left. Most of the contents were missing, but he'd kindly left me my passport, wallet, and a small festival of lint.

Why anyone would take someone else's stuff, stuff they won't even use (I can just see him writing poetry in my moleskine now, casually popping another contraceptive pill) I don't know. It enrages me. The worst part is that there's nothing I can do, aside from sending 'you're a dick' texts to my cell phone, which helps a bit.

So, that was my latest brush with crime. If I had to draw a lesson from the experience then I guess it would be: if you're going out to dance to 80s music, always wear a fanny pack.