Stansted, Saturday evening. I’ve just arrived back from Sweden, and am walking through customs when I realise something really rather inconvenient.

I’ve left my wallet on the plane.

In it is my sole bank card, my Oyster Card, some safety cash for going abroad, plus the cash I was paid by the Stockholm Poetry Festival. On top of that, there was the cash I was paid by the TV company for thoughts on dandyism and fashion, etc.

And all because RyanAir planes don’t have mesh pockets on the backs of their seats.

Well, all right, it’s my fault, I’m an absent-minded fool. But the lack of a mesh pocket was why I put my wallet on the floor and forgot about it. I had wanted to buy something to eat on the journey, so took out my wallet from my bag. But there was nowhere to put it during the flight. My hands were used up wrestling with Ali Smith (her new book Girl Meets Boy, of which more anon). I had no pockets for once: the plane was so warm, I’d taken my jacket off. So on the floor and out of mind went my wallet.

(And as it turned out, I didn’t use my wallet after all. The couple between me and the aisle said ‘no thanks’ whenever a stewardess passed by. I felt that piping up and asking for food across their glaring, Le-Carre-reading laps, would seem like contradicting them. Too much like Making A Fuss. Yes, I know. My fault entirely. I think the fact they were a couple intimidated me. I often feel intimidated when forced to sit next to a couple in public places. It feels like two versus one.)

So at the airport, having realised what I’ve done, I tell the people at the RyanAir desk. They say the plane is now locked up for the night, and that I have to contact the firm who cleans their planes, allowing at least 24 hours, in case it’s been handed in.

(Sunday evening as I write this, in Highgate. I’ve emailed and left a message with the plane cleaners. No word about my wallet yet.)

There is the small matter of how to get home on the tube without an Oyster card or money for a ticket. And I’ll have to borrow some cash from somewhere, if I’m to eat this weekend.

What does everyone else do when they’re stuck without money, and need to get home? Just start begging on the spot? With my guitar and laptop? I suppose I COULD give an impromptu gig. People might drop enough coins to get me to stop.

The most logical option is a slightly embarrassing one for the age of 36. But I AM lucky enough to know two people with a car and a spare room in nearby (ish) Suffolk, who will be happy to rescue me (as long as it’s Stansted, not Gatwick or Heathrow), and who are also the least likely to be out at a gig, pub, or getting ready for a nightclub.

Mum meets me in the car park an hour later, shrugging off the inconvenience, happy to see me. I spend a cosy evening in Suffolk (they’ve now replaced my childhood ‘graffiti’ duvet cover with something arty and tasteful), and catch the lovely two-carriage Sudbury train to London the next day. Last time I took this Adlestrop-like branch line, which passes through the village of Bures and the East Anglian Railway Museum at Chappel & Wakes Colne, it was to see R.E.M. play at Wembley Arena on the ‘Green’ tour. Late 80s. Straight from school.

While waiting for Mum at the airport, I sit on some plastic seats, surrounded by the bored and the tired of the travelling world. Airports really should be happier, prettier places. But they rarely are. They all conspire to associate flying, the very dream of humanity for aeons, with the stuff of bland drudgery, of identical shopping malls. Of overpriced coffee. Of scratchcards.

I love flying. It’s airports I have a fear of.

Tired Frenchman: Hey, cheer up. I’m waiting too. I see you have a guitar. Could you play it for a while?

Me: Can’t, sorry. It’s an electric. Needs plugging in. Sounds wrong otherwise.

(pause)

Me: Actually, even when I plug it in and play it, people say it still sounds wrong.

I don’t think he got the joke.