I arrive at the checkout at Sainsburys: no debit card in my wallet. No sign. Not where it should be, nestling next to my utterly superfluous Nectar card, which continually fails to offer up the golden, honey-like juices that its name suggests it might.

The last time I remember using and thus seeing my debit card was in slightly unpleasant gastropub Chapel on Thursday night. I panic. I run home with shopping, paid for on a credit card with some insane APR. I ring the pub to ask if it's there. It isn't. I scour the pockets of other pairs of trousers lying around, I empty bags out onto the floor, no sign. So I ring Barclays to cancel the card. They are polite and efficient in dealing with my slightly flustered babbling, and even tell me not to worry, and to enjoy my weekend. I check my balance on the internet. It's OK. No catalogue shopping sprees have shown up, or withdrawals of large wads of Euros from cashpoints on the Cote D'Azur. The reason for this is that I haven't yet checked my other jacket, in which my debit card is sitting, neatly wrapped with a receipt from Chapel for £34.20.

I get a big pair of scissors and cut it in half, rolling my eyes just enough to suggest vague embarrassment at my stupidity, but not so much as to cause me to cut my fingers with the scissors. Now that would be stupid.