Back in the pocket

For about a month, I have been missing my wallet.

I had only two clues to work with regarding it’s whereabouts:

1. No purchases had been made on any cards, so it hadn’t been discovered by a malicious actor
2. My wife mentioned that she last saw it “in a rather unusual place”, but couldn’t give any further comment.

So I knew it was most likely in the house, and courtesy of my young daughter and low conscientious personality, that meant that I would be searching through a proverbial haystack of toys strewn around the living room.

My bete noire, the couch, was the first place I looked. It was not under the pillows. It was not underneath. It was not jammed down the back, halfway suspended.

Dammit.

It wasn’t in the laundry room, or my jeans’ pockets, or our bedroom. It wasn’t in the study, or the kitchen, or in the cupboard (you never know).

It wasn’t ANYWHERE.

Until it was. After one, last, final search before I began the dreadful task of replacing everything, I did one last look.

And voila, there it was.

Under the couch.