This week I went to a Blue Jays game with a few people from work.
It was a good game, good company, beers, fun. Afterwards we all jumped in a cab and went to Bravi on Wellington Street — a fav hang-out of my boss. Next stop reservoir lounge. Final stop, home — around 2:30 a.m. (and that was very unusual). Way too late for a weeknight. That’s FOR SURE.
So morning comes around. I drag myself upright, get ready for work, grab my purse to go to the office. Huh. Purse feels unusually light.
Right… that’s because there’s no wallet.
Great. Memories of teenaged years. No wallet.
Great. GREAT. Great. Everything is in there. Social insurance card — driver’s license, health card.
On the way to work I’m actually wondering how I’d replace them all, since it included all my ID. Suddenly I have no way of getting money, or proving to the bank I’m actually who I say I am.
When I get to work, I call and cancel things. It seems the only identifying thing I actually HAVE is my mother’s maiden name. Sheesh. Thank goodness for that!
So I called Bravi — they hadn’t found it.
Panic panic panic.
Then I get an e-mail from home.
Subject line: horseshoes.
Dear Melissa, the note began. My brother (Richard) found your wallet last night. He tried to return it to you then. However, no answer when he knocked on door. I tried this morning on his behalf before dropping off at 55 division police.
The note goes on to tell me where the station is, and is signed Marion.
It almost seems too good to be true, doesn’t it? When I get to 55 division later that day I actually feel like there will be some joke — the wallet will be back, but there will be nothing in it or something.
But no — everything is there. Tokens, money — everything.
So thank you to Richard and Marion — Leslievillers extraordinaire.