Eleanor Tiernan: Being an awful loser makes me feel so powerless 

When I left my bag on the tram, I was reminded that the kindness of strangers is a beautiful thing. 

Eleanor Tiernan

I used to be an awful loser. Not just small things like keys and wallets. When I lose, I lose big. Once on holiday, in the days before smartphones I left my passport and plane tickets in a nightclub. I only realised they were missing when I returned to the venue a week later and the lady at the counter recognised me from my passport photo. If it wasn’t for that angel I’d have been at the airport two days later asking to be let on a plane to Ireland with no documentation.

This was a long time ago though. Having maintained a loss-free record for a while I thought my days of leaving things behind me were over. I am in control of my life now. What’s that they say about pride coming before a fall?

Last Sunday I was crossing London, dragging my wheelie suitcase and a bag on my shoulder, on my way home after another weekend of gigs. I was stuck in my phone. Scrolling through Twitter, reading articles, recording Whatsapp voice notes for friends in the moments when I wasn’t on the move. Then the battery died and I put it away. It didn’t matter. I was nearly home. My mind was full of thoughts for how I’d spend the rest of the day. A walk on the Thames maybe, a roast dinner from the pub around the corner? Though I’d travelled across the country, it was still early enough that the day was up for grabs. I got off at the last stop and began the short walk home.

I was maybe two hundred metres from the station crossing a narrow canal bridge when I noticed a feeling of lightness. It was pleasant at first. Like I’d been relieved of something. And then the dawning that this light feeling was that I was lacking something. My shoulder that had been weighted down was now bag-free. It was still on the train I’d just stepped off.

I turned to see the turquoise and red tram disappearing into the distance. My mouth opened and out of it came a number of expletives. Sunday walkers in the peaceful vicinity of Limehouse Basin turned to see what the fuss was. 

I stood immobile wondering what to do. People squeezed past my suitcase and I as we gaped in horror.

I knew that in London, there was already every chance someone had found it and was now flogging my belongings down the pub. Who knew? Maybe I’d even see them doing my jokes too someday. I stayed with the assumption that some civic-minded person would be the one to come across it though. And no more than Liam Neeson in Taken my years of losing things have taught me that the longer your item has been missing then the lower the chances are of getting it back. Despite wanting to cry and call everyone in my phone, now was not the time. I had to act fast if I had any hope of seeing my belongings again.

Thoughts of what I’d now lost came flooding in. My empty lunchbox I could stand to lose. All the notes for a new show I’ve been writing, not so much. And then I remembered my laptop was in it.

Once home, I used my newly charged to log onto the TFL (Transport For London) website. In five minutes I had duly completed the lost property form and gotten a “We’ll be in touch if we find your lost item” email.

Despite the reassuring tone, I couldn’t relax. The powerlessness was too much. Instead of doing any of the nice things planned, I left home with no plan except to go to where my bag might be. I reboarded a similar-looking tram heading along the same route half-expecting to see it sitting there untouched. I got on and off different carriages along the route. I saw sympathetic transport workers and asked them if they’d seen it. I pressed the intercom and spoke to disembodied voices at unmanned stations. All told me that if it was found, someone would be in touch. They were pleasant but I could tell they were trying to set my expectations that I’d not get it back.

Eventually it got dark. I realised I was on a hiding to nothing. On the way home, I let myself think about not getting it back. The cost of replacing the laptop. The notes for the new stand up show I was writing however… hard to replace. 

Losing things isn’t exactly a character flaw but there’s something so embarrassing and foolish about it that makes one feel painfully childish.

I was cooking dinner when I got the call. My phone lit up with a number I didn’t know. My heart began to race but I didn’t dare hope. A man with an Eastern European accent spoke.

“Can I speak to…. “Eleanor Tiernan?” “Yes yes, it’s me”.

“I am calling, my wife doesn’t speak English well, she was on the train today and she found your bag.”.

I don’t remember much after. My phone number had been written on the inside cover of my comedy notebook and that’s how they found me. We hastily made arrangements for me to collect it from her the next day. We hung up. I lay down and got some rest.

The next morning I walked to her workplace and stood like a lemon on a blind date waiting for her. Eventually I heard my name. Approaching me, bag in hand, was a lovely smiling face. The kindness in her soul seemed forged into it. She had even washed the lunchbox inside too. Her struggle to find English words is further testimony to her goodness. I said “Thank You” so many times I almost forgot to give her the box of Cadbury’s Heroes in my hand.

And then despite still not feeling like I’d not done enough, I left and she returned to her work. Again the powerlessness returned. Despite having gotten the bag back, I didn’t regain any sense of control. Because of course I am not in control of very much. I’m very much getting by on luck like everyone else. The only thing I might be able to control I thought as I walked home, was whether someday, given the opportunity, I’d be willing to do the same for someone else.