Rosita Boland: When my black silk velvet cape met my Trumpian taxi driver

It was Elizabeth Bishop who said in her poem, One Art, “the art of losing isn’t hard to master”. I rarely lose things. But the one huge thing I did lose some years ago made up spectacularly for all the other small insignificant things I had never lost – a diamond engagement ring. It was in its red leather box, at the bottom of a bag with all my other jewellery. I had been travelling for some months, and left my jewellery with family for safekeeping while my house was rented out.

On return, I put my modest pieces out on the dressing table, and then put the paper bag they had been in, into the recycling bin. It was only some days later, after the binmen had been and gone, that I realised the little red box was missing from my dressing table. I refused to believe it had gone out with the trash. I told myself instead I had simply misplaced it somewhere. When I moved out of that house, I was confident it would turn up somewhere once all the furniture has been removed. It did not.

Anyway, I don’t know if you have heard of a brand called The Vampire’s Wife, but some months ago, I lost the run of myself entirely, and bought a cape via the website. The designer is Susie Bick, who is married to Nick Cave, and it would be hard to know which of the pair is more talented.

The cape was called a Crusader Cape, in black silk velvet, lined with silk. It was by a very long way the most expensive item of clothing I have ever bought, and most likely ever will.

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I was out at an event on Friday evening last week, and wore the cape. It was only the cape’s second outing. There was a cloakroom at the event, and I left the cape there at the start of the evening on a rail: what better place to leave a cape than in a cloakroom? It was a merry evening, and I had a lot of fun. When I left, my hand alighted on black silk velvet; I tossed it over my shoulders and went home in a taxi.

The next morning, I saw the item of clothing where I had hung it up downstairs. Weird. What were buttons doing on it? My cape didn’t fasten with buttons: it had wide satin ribbons that tied into a bow. My brain finally caught up with my eyesight. I had taken the wrong garment home.

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All I could think was: my cape has gone the way of the diamond ring. Into the ether. Serves me right for buying something so stupidly expensive. It was bound to repel from me. I was veritable garlic to The Vampire’s Wife cape. I had banished it.

I messaged the organiser of the event with pictures of the garment I had mistakenly brought home with me. This is the first time I’ve gone home with someone else’s belongings. It felt curiously odd to be in possession of a stranger’s coat. I was not a thief, but I had unwittingly purloined someone’s else’s property.

He stopped with reluctance, and I snatched my cape up. As I closed the door, I heard him mutter quite loudly, ‘Moron’

The organiser messaged me back with the name of a well-known businesswoman, confirming it was her coat. “X went home without her coat.”

“I stole X’s coat,” I announced to my houseguests, who fell about laughing.

As to where my cape was, that took more time. First the hotel said there was nothing there. I smite my brow and pulled my hair and generally tore myself limb from limb. To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, to lose one diamond ring may be regarded as a misfortune; to also lose a brand new frippery named for a medieval fighter definitely looked like carelessness.

Then a message came in from the event organiser. It had been found. The following day, I duly got into a taxi with the businesswoman’s coat and headed off to the hotel to do a swap. I delivered the purloined coat back tied in a ribbon, with a card of apology, and retrieved my own cape with relief.

The return taxi I got had no fewer than three large notices declaring that “Cash is King”, the biggest on the ceiling right over my head. I was not paying cash. I was paying via an app. I was a crusader with a cape and without cash.

Mr Taxi Man also had a large American flag stuck through the dashboard grille; no fewer than three phones attached to the windscreen; and a plastic floral lei hanging from the mirror. For a man with such a garland, he was far from sunny. He blared his horn non-stop at every so-called “moron” motorist who offended him en route home.

[ The vet said my dog was ‘bright of mind and spirit’. May we all be like that in 2024 ]

“Who do you think will win the American election?” I asked.

“Trump,” he said tersely. “He’ll walk it. Biden’s a moron.”

We arrived at my road, and I got out. As Mr Taxi man was reversing, I realised with horror I had left my cape on the back seat. “The art of losing isn’t hard to master . . . ”

“Wait!” I yelped, flagging him down.

He stopped with reluctance, and I snatched my cape up. As I closed the door, I heard him mutter quite loudly, “Moron.”

Next time this crusader wears that cape out, I won’t be taking it off.

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