Identity crisis

There are a few phases you pass through when this occurs, rather like the seven stages of grief.

The first is shock. What? That piece of plastic that has been sitting next to the supermarket points card that I've never once used for the last seven years? Gone? How? Why? Who? Where?

Next is denial. This will oblige you to rummage through the various cards in your wallet a silly number of times, even though it's quite clear that what you're searching for has long since left the building. "Just one last look," you'll think to yourself, before rifling through the cards yet again and then slumping back down on the sofa, defeated. After about 4.6 seconds you'll realise that you haven't yet taken each card separately between thumb and index finger and rubbed so hard that you'll erase your own fingerprints just in case some superglue snuck in overnight in order to bind two of them together.

Then there's the anger. You'd never realised the English language contained so many expressions for "I'm an idiot" or, indeed, so many swear words. You may or may not also beat yourself about the head with a frying pan during the self-admonishment process, but this will depend largely on your levels of self-esteem.

The fourth stage is bargaining. Please, God - if you only let me find my ID under one of those cushions on that seat I've never ever sat on, I'll treat it much better this time and give it its own little windowed compartment in my wallet so that I see my ugly mug every time I open it (which isn't very often, my friends will be only too happy to tell you).

The next phase is wild imaginings. Hang on, what about that weird looking dude on the bus? Maybe he pick-pocketed me, opened my wallet on the spot, ignored all my bank cards, took out my ID and then slipped it back into my inside jacket pocket while I was staring wanly into the middle distance working out how many barrels of stout we'll need at the pub for the rugby. See also: rummaging through random drawers on the off-chance the missing card leapt from your bedside table into one of them during the night on a whim.

After that, it's acceptance and hope. For this you have to stare at yourself in the bathroom mirror and repeat, ad nauseam, "I've lost my NIE, I've lost my NIE..," before trudging off to the police station to chant the same mantra in the presence of a long-suffering, eye-rolling police officer. He does offer you that one glimmer of hope, though: "Don't apply for a replacement for three or four days, sir, because IDs often turn up shortly after disappearing," he sighs.

You can't remember the Spanish for "Yeah, right", so you shuffle dejectedly back to the pub where the cleaner has left something for you on top of the bar.

Well, I'll be darned - it's your ID.