There has been an ongoing saga involving a certain missing wallet of mine, and unfortunately it's current location is still swirling around my head like a lost cockroach.
It has led me on a rather epic treasure trail. Where the hell the gold is I'm still yet to find out.
Here is the tale
Let me take you back to March 13th earlier this year, what were you doing that night?
As a freelance student journalist I had organised to interview Radio1 DJ Annie Mac for a music website.
It was a hectic night, we were meant to meet beforehand but before I knew it she was spinning the decks. By then I had given up my dictaphone for a lager, or several.
Did you see me enter the nightclub in Bournemouth that night?
All of a sudden it was at least 3am and Annie's strolling off the stage to leave.
She passes me, and looks like she's seen a troll as I try to grab her attention.
But as I say my alliterated name, she remembers. Oh yeeeea, there are some perks to having a name straight out of the top ten worst nursery rhymes. Thanks mum.
Anyway, before I knew it, we are sitting in a car. People on the outside are looking at me weird, one throws up. He's not drunk, just jealous.
Were you outside when I got into a black car on March 13th?
All of a sudden I'm in the back of this small black automobile and Annie's in the front with her driver. In a slight haze, with my ears ringing, I complete the interview.
It may be nearly 4am but I did not attempt to sing in this interview as I have done in the past, nor did I make nervous jokes or fall asleep (I have never done that).
I would like to say I was the epitome of the three CCC's:
Cool, calm, comatosed.
In fact I was actually quite professional.
However as Annie was driven off I suddenly realised I had lost my precious wonga holder: my wallet. Initially, I thought I had left it in the club, I searched and questioned. But nothing.
Did you see my concerned face that fateful night?
A few weeks later
After an email here and an email there it turns out Annie's driver had found my wallet in his car after coming back from a holiday.
Cheers mate, not all of us could afford a trip to Cyprus. I could barely scrape enough money together for a bacon bap.
Ok so that's a minor exaggeration and granted it was MY fault.
But at least I would now get my wallet back.
I didn't.
Nothing.
It may have had a small something to do with the the way I emailed Annie saying I'd give her some money if it cost her to send me my wallet.
What MAY have caused a tiny bit of suspicion (false) was a slightly badly worded sentence whereby I might of mentioned I'd pay for any postage cost if she gave me her bank details so that I could transfer the money.
I have tried to make this sound less bad, and me, less like a good-for-nothing scammer.
I realised my error as soon as I had pressed send, and then proceeded with an apology email.
Most likely this was deemed unsuccessful.
My leather folder long gone, and I, taking on more loans than Michael Jackson (when he was alive).
A bit later
SIX whole months later, I now have a new wallet. I may wave it in your face if I see you because I have it, it's mine and I haven't thus far left it anywhere other than my own car.
But there's a pride issue at steak and unbeknown to me it seems a little trip from another Radio1 DJ, Zane Lowe, may have brought this out of me in full-force.
You may have already imagined the forthcoming events.
This has become known as typical Harry Harris. The event was as followed:
I had an interview organised with Mr Lowe, the last question may have involved a fellow female, curly haired DJ, and a black, leather wallet.
It was like the last question on Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and I truly was ready for the prize.
But an anti-climax thus took place, Lowe became uncontactable and the interview ceased to happen. I had lost all hope.
The night was drawing to a close, although as I tumbled out of the student union nightclub in Bournemouth there was Dan Brown ready and waiting to solve my own Da Vinci code.
But I wasn't going to say anything to Mr. Lowe. No, no, no, it had gone past that, there was too much pride at risk.
A few of my fellow night goers had a slightly different idea.
Rupert, a housemate of mine: "Go on Harry, go on, go and ask him where's your wallet. Do it. He probably hangs out with Annie all the time"
There was more of this talk from other such friends.
In a rather tispy state, after giving up any hope of an interview, I waddled over to Mr. Lowe standing by his car.
As cool as a large cucumber I announced:
"Yooo Mr. Lowe."
Silence.
"How, is, it going?"
A murmur.
"Do you know.... Annie Mac?"
Zane: "Yes, why?"
Harry Harris: "She stole my wallet. (off course this we know is not strictly true)
...But it's a long story you probably don't want to know."
Apparently he did. It's all slightly hazy, but I apparently recounted the whole adventure.
Mr. Lowe then replied in words such as these: "I'm going to turn into Sherlock Holmes and investigate what happened to your wallet."
What a revelation! This was getting better than Murder She Wrote and there was no bodged manslaughter involved.
I was asked to write my email address on a post-it note using a permanent marker.
This, by the way isn't easy. Though I'm sure he definitely wasn't trying to fob me off.
What was happening here was progress.
Why then, I have still not received contact from any of the previously mentioned people I am dumbfounded.
Crimewatch beckons.
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