During the first half of my journey I kept metaphorically patting myself on the back, using descriptors for myself such as “meticulous” and “flawless” in little anecdotes I would create in my head (a habit of mine).
So much for flawless. The 24-hours sans-sleep finally caught up to me. I left my new favourite novel, journal, and boarding pass in a toilet stall at Heathrow. It took me a good ten/fifteen to realize this, and when I checked back they were gone. I stayed relatively calm, checking with security twice before humbling myself before my airline.
“Hi. I lost my boarding pass, in a toilet stall.”
She seemed fairly sympathetic. I think I was most choked about the novel– I was really getting into it. As I handed over my passport to get a new pass printed I scanned the desk.
“Oh. There they are.” Black Moleskine journal. “Anagrams” printed in rainbow colours, the novel’s title. The two items perfectly representing my grief and euphoria.
Thank you anonymous UK traveler.
exports 
ha! glad you’ve made it safe, along with book and journal.
Joel, that is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time. nice work!
Well, some might consider Heathrow to be comparable to hell. I’m glad you got out with book, passport, boarding pass and all.
Was buch? What book?