My decades-old bike has been stolen – and I feel bereft | Zoe Williams

I've flipped between denial, acceptance and moaning about the loss of this lovely and useful thing. I just hope it will be appreciated in its next home

My bike got nicked last week, which initially presented itself as an experiment in consciousness, a magic realist problem: it had to be there, because that's where I'd left it. And yet it wasn't there. I spent a shamefully long time just staring at the place it had been. Later, I tried valiantly to insert some false memories, where I'd moved it somewhere else; then I went to look over there, where it still wasn't. I gazed around for security cameras, as if I would have a clue what I would do next if there were any. I've seen Slow Horses. All you need to do is find a camera, make a call and punch someone. But there weren't any cameras.

The next morning, I returned to the area, just to do some more walking around. Maybe the thief had experienced a fit of conscience and abandoned the bike. Or had become somehow vexed by it. Maybe if I stood in the vicinity for long enough, the bike would scent me on the air and return of its own accord.