Lost

Over the last couple of weeks I've lost the tops of two of the cheap black biros I use at work and over the weekend I mislaid an entire pen. In the great scheme of things this may not count for much, but it's this kind of thing that makes me wonder if I'm fraying at the edges. I'm not terribly worried if I am. I quite like the kind of carpet that's showing its age - we've got one under our favourite coffee table that's losing all definition and I'd be loathe to fix it. So if I don't get fixed I suppose, by analogy, I can put up with that.

But I wouldn't mind finding the pen tops. I keep marking my fingers with black ink, summoning memories of how incredibly, unhygienically, scruffy I was at school.