My very sticky situation after mislaying walking aid

I’VE never lost my heart in San Francisco, like it says in the song.

But I have lost my walking stick on Leeds station, which is almost as romantic as the Golden Gate City.

I found “San Fran” cold and foggy on the one occasion I was there, nothing like the movies.

Whereas Platform 8D is bathed in golden spring sunlight, being way out in the open and so far away from the rest it’s practically in Selby. You may think that’s an exaggeration, and if so you’ve come to the right place. Yes, it is a right old totter from the Skipton end, but you can do it in 10 minutes.

On board for Edinburgh, I asked. ”Where’s my stick?”, words repeated, with expletives not deleted. Still resting against a pillar on 8D, of course. A weekend without a stick, after almost a year of relying on the damn thing, was instructive.

Nobody notices the difficulties of the stick-less. A fool and his stick are soon parted, to rephrase the adage.

On the journey back, I inquired of Network Rail, without very much confidence, if Leeds has a lost property office. Indeed so. A helpful man rummaged among the shelves and offered me a fine red one. No, mine is blue.

This? Yes! Thank you, whoever handed it in, and thanks, Network Rail, for unwonted efficiency.

My stick has form. It’s gone AWOL in countless places of refreshment.

It went walkabout in a Greek bus station, where an official ran after me shouting “Your third leg, sir!”.

I may have it fitted with one of those screaming car alarms to alert me to its absence. If I can find where I put it.