An afternoon errand turned nasty.

HOST play tonight at the Buffalo Bar, but their guitar amp isn't up to much. I kindly offered to lend them mine, and left Jenny's house in Muswell Hill to go and fetch it out of the lock-up. I waited on Colney Hatch Lane for a bus to take me to Highgate, while eating a pre-packed egg sandwich that I'd bought from Sainsburys a few minutes earlier. As the bus rolled up the hill, I threw away the plastic bag and sandwich packaging into the nearby litter bin thoughtfully provided by Haringey council. But as I went to step onto the bus, I realised I no longer had my Oyster card (for non-London residents, this is the awfully modern swipe card that London Transport users brandish whenever they approach a ticket gate.) I was sure I'd had it a minute ago. I let the bus drive off, and pondered what might have happened to it.

After a few minutes it became clear to me that I'd lobbed it in the bin along with the sandwich wrapper. But the bin was one of those types which is very deep, and has very small openings at each side. I peered in. I couldn't see my oyster card, just various slimy looking bits of litter. I looked around, and noticed that I now had a small audience of about 7 people waiting at the bus stop, wondering what I was doing peering into a smelly bin. Clearly I was far too smartly dressed [cough] to be trying to cobble together some lunch from leftovers. But getting on my knees, thrusting my hand deep into the unknown and blindly feeling around would leave them in no doubt that I was some kind of vagrant. Did I care? Well, unfortunately, yes, I did. I pondered how much credit was left on the card. About 9 days worth of travel, equating to about 30 quid. Was it worth 30 quid to push my arm into a bin and feel around with a middle-class 30-something audience looking on in horror?

I decided to go over to them and come clean. “Can I share my problem with you?” I asked. A couple of them visibly shrank away, concerned that I might have been about to engage them in discussion about my bowel condition. (I have no bowel condition, by the way.)”It's OK, really,” I said. They didn't look convinced. “You see, I think I just threw my Oyster card in the bin,” I explained. “I reckon there's about 30 quid left on it, and I'm not sure that it's worth 30 quid to desperately root around in some litter in front of people I don't know. What do you think?” One woman thought I should just get on with it. “We don't mind,” she said. Well, cheers love, but I bet you won't help in the search. Another woman told me that you can get your lost & stolen Oyster cards replaced. “All you need is the number on your Oyster card,” she added. The number on my Oyster card, however, was in the bin. On my Oyster card.

In the end I cursed my squeamishness and stupidity and just got on the bus, paid a quid, and got to Highgate station where I sat in a photo booth to get some pictures done for a new card. “We're going to do our best to make a wonderful photo,” droned the Lisa I'Anson-like voiceover. “Just relax, and smile!” I stiffened, and frowned, in preparation for the pop of the flashbulb. When I had established a suitably grim expression, I pressed the button. “Thank you for having your photo taken with us! Come back soon!” Come back SOON? Jesus. One thing is clear about photo-booths: they do not rival Alton Towers as a leisure destination.

I rang Oyster later in the afternoon. I gave them my name and postcode and credit card details, and they refunded 9 days worth of travel immediately. What nice people. So, if you ever drop your Oyster card into a steaming heap of shit, let the above tale be a lesson to you. Just leave it there, and saunter away with a smile.