Grief, if I had to describe the root, is the absence of something. Obviously, there are the serious, life-changing losses: the deaths of family members or friends or pets; redundancy; relationship breakups; when Phoebe Waller-Bridge confirmed there would be only two series of Fleabag. But there are also losses less impactful but annoying, inconvenient, troubling. And here I ask: how glorious is it to find something?

It’s the feeling of relief when scrambling around the house for keys and feeling the cold lump of metal under a letter, or getting the call that a debit card has been handed in to reception. It’s the sensation of luck when the folders of treasured photographs are recovered from an exploded computer. It’s the bonus of spotting an item of clothing at the back of the wardrobe you had misplaced months ago. The reward poster that yields results. The passport in a neglected drawer the night before an international flight; panic averted.

I love, too, the delight of getting one’s hands on something long sought: a book that is out of print. A perfect G Plan side table for a bargain price, found in a rural antiques shop, when hours of online browsing turned up nothing. Arriving at a destination, shattered, after hours of driving with an unreliable satnav.

Then there is finding as discovery – stumbling across something you didn’t know you were seeking; a wander around town leads to a beautiful statue in a beautiful square. On a macro scale, people talk of finding love, or God; even finding themselves (usually on a Thai island). I mean more along the lines of finding out a crumbling shopfront in London is, in fact, a toy museum, open according to the owner’s whims. (I’ve never been told more times in the space of few minutes that nothing is for sale.)

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The truth is, I do not deal well with losing things. Probably because loss is a form of change and I do not deal well with change. Unless it’s a change I approve of, such as when Kristen Stewart started dating women. Finding something, though, isn’t always enjoyable. When reordering my bookshelves, a slip of paper dropped out of an inside cover: a love note from an ex. Sometimes finding is remembering. And sometimes that is painful or poignant, and one does not want to remember. Reminders are not always good for the mind.

But I have the high of a marathon runner when, with the obvious impediment, I manage to find my glasses. I will kiss you on the mouth if you spot the one free table in the pub garden. I will be smug when fingering what I think is a receipt in my pocket and realise it’s a £10 note. I will be changing where I keep my passport, though. Some things you don’t want to have to find.