raiders of the lost jumpers

In the dim half light you could almost feel the shadows move.
The air was heavy and stale in the hollow stillness where centuries lingered.
Dust everywhere.
I inched forward wary of traps.
Most remote of sanctuaries.
Uncharted realm.
And lo! Right there! Right there in the corner!
Something glitters.
I seize it and examine it feverishly.
My eyes shine with lustrous avidity.
Yes!
It is a Viv Clarke Special jumper, retail price 75 lids, two months old but still indupitably a collectors item.
And here it is.
Right here.
In the linen closet at the Chateau de Healy.
Gnuuuuuuuuuurgh!
For two months this jumper has been missing.
For two months I've been accusing sundry innocent individuals of purloining it.
Business woman Jackie.
Doctor Barn.
Even the legendary Mags Masefield. (She who knows not kismet.)
I accused 'em all.
"J'accuse," I cried.
And I meant it to sting.
Now I'm going to have to eat humble pie.
Dammit bold readers. You all know how I hate humble pie.
I'm rather partial to James You're Ireland's Greatest Living Poet Pie.
Or James You're The Finest Mind Of A Generation Pie.
Or James You're The Most Magnificent Lover I've Ever Had Pie.
No really.
Those are delicious.
But humble pie is not so much fun.
With drooping shoulders I retreat from the temple of lost jumpers.
I'll start to bake the pies in the morning.