Woops. My Christmas list just got bigger this weekend. My favorite bag is MIA after a trip to the airport. She was last seen sitting in the luggage storage bin above one of the chairs on the Long Island Rail Road. My first contact with lost and found came up with zilch. I remember something I heard on one of those CSI shows, that after the first 48 hours the likelihood of finding the bad guy—read my bag—drops off like the Niagara.

Fortunately, I didn’t have my usual cornucopia of semi-valuable possessions with me. My gloves were in there, as well as my good hat, along with a borrowed book (I hope they don’t notice). The remaining detritus of office and home supplies, while useful, will accumulate on its own accord.

I’m going to Penn Station now to check for my bag. If she isn’t there, then I’ll be asking for some leather gloves and a black stocking cap for Christmas.