My loose change is in my trouser pocket, underneath my silver Gore-Tex waterproof trousers. I wriggle my fingers inside the elastic waist. The first coin I feel is – 50p! An omen. I drop it into his palm, careful my fingers don’t brush his.

The storm is hushed as I go through the spinning door into the club’s low-ceilinged vestibule. I remove my helmet, peel off the protective outerwear and check myself in the mirror. The wide-lapelled, oversize-cut jacket and matching grey trousers – Dries Van Noten – have kept dry, though there’s a bit of annoying damp around the collar. My top two shirt buttons are undone, and my round-toed shoes from Trickers are scuffed. I’m unkempt, by design, just messy enough so that not everyone can spy my vanity.

‘Hi, Gil,’ says Petra, the jolly guardian of the signing-in book. She gingerly takes my wet outer coat and trousers, holds them in thumb and forefinger as far from herself as possible, and drapes them on a hanger to drip in the cloakroom behind her.

‘I’m expecting a guest,’ I say. ‘I’ll be in the downstairs bar.’

As I push open double doors into the long drinking room, the chatter crashes over me. It’s 8.15 p.m., still too early for Jools Holland to be at the upright piano that stands between the bar and the club restaurant. I grab one of the fat sofas by the front window and while I wait, I check my pockets: two Nokia 2110 mobile phones, one for normal, one for special contacts; and my pager. I am obsessive about always being reachable. It’s not uncommon for me to have three conversations on the go: one on each of the mobiles and another on the office landline. My editor dines out on tales of me ringing him and then putting him on hold. I should be embarrassed, but no, I am flattered.

Silver Nokia in the left pocket, blue Nokia in the right. And in my right trouser pocket . . .

Nothing. I should feel the familiar bulge of the pager pressing against thigh, instead there is just a crumpled handkerchief. I pat myself all over, left pocket too. It’s not there.

Could it have fallen out when I was cycling? That seems unlikely, given all my clothes were sealed by the Gore-Tex outerwear. Could it be in the pocket of the wet-weather overtrousers, or the back pouch of the waterproof jacket? I wouldn’t have risked it. I check every pocket again, and a third time. I know I look mad. And then I remember. The 50p. The pager must have spilled out then when I was handing it over. It was raining so I wouldn’t have noticed when it hit the ground. I run for the door. It’s still pissing down and there’s nothing on the wet pavement. The beggar has vanished.