“Hey that’s my shirt,“ the first time someone stole something from me was in primary school when the gypsy kid who had just moved to St Malachy’s changed into my white shirt after PE instead of her own ratty grey-tinged one.
I was always a few years bigger in children’s sizes and the bottoms of my sleeves were consistently covered in smudged blue ink, like my hands. Her shirt was too small and you could've grown potatoes in the collar. My protests of theft feel on deaf ears. I didn't have a name tag sewn on. In hindsight I should've had some sympathy; the kid probably needed a new shirt.
Fast-forward to modern times and the only person nicking my stuff is Denzel the pug. Most of my favourite socks go to rest in his bed. We won’t talk about the knickers he took from the washing line.
Nowadays I am more likely to have lost something than to have had it stolen, RIP to the countless missing umbrellas making their way around Northern Ireland’s public transport network, the water bottles that were left in the gym and the lipsticks stranded in café bathrooms and potentially the car.