I am experimenting with a format where I write exactly 500 words about something mundane yet spiritual.

Stephanie Fleishmann – playwright, librettist, and former teacher of mine – wrote a play called The Secret Lives of Coats. That title has been on my mind a lot the past couple of days, after my winter coat was stolen while I was at a bar celebrating New Year’s Eve.

Stolen might be a bit dramatic – probably somebody got drunk and mistook mine for theirs. But nobody has called the number I left at the bar, and surely a person would have a natural instinct for how their winter coat feels? Surely the one thing I’d left in its pockets – a used Paris metro ticket – would signal someone else’s possession?

A part of me is sure I brought this upon myself. When I was in Paris a few days prior, I’d glance at my reflection on shop windows and think: ‘Hm, bit frumpy. Hagrid-chic.’ The zipper tape had torn off a little, and it felt tight around the shoulders. So maybe the coat seized the opportunity to go off in a huff, into the arms of someone who would appreciate its labour.

The friend I was with on New Year’s Eve reminded me about a time in New York, about a decade ago, when we were at a bar in Meatpacking called Gaslight. (You can’t make this shit up!) I had worn a flamboyant pink striped jacket that night, so it was much easier to notice when somebody had tried to walk out the door with it. What followed was what I can only describe as a tug-of-war between this random, expressionless ponytailed girl and me, supported by four of my friends, including – I’m pretty sure – a random Swedish man we’d just met. He’d entered our group because my friend, an Aries, had asked him point-blank if he was a priest. (His shirt collar made him look like one.) We won the jacket, and because this story is now a part of its fabric, I will guard it forever.

I’ve been thinking about that time, circa 2014, a lot, especially since reading Marlowe Granados’ Happy Hour. I’d hesitated to pick up the book because I was in a sour mood that had lasted months, and the last thing I wanted to read was a story about beautiful, confident 20-something women without chronic shoulder pain. But I did anyway, because I was feeling homesick, and I loved it. Instead of making me nostalgic or envious, it energised me. Here were two best friends whom I had no doubt would have the same amount of joie de vivre in 10, 20, 30 years, hyper-charged when they are together. Joie de vivre, the book taught me, is a choice.1

On New Year’s Eve my friends – including that Aries – cocooned me as we walked home. It was quintessential 3 of Cups, warmth materialising out of thin air. And a useful reminder from the universe that all possessions are rentals. May that thief have a good 2025, bookended by a nice, warm, and very proud winter coat.