Now, in which idiot-proof place did I put my passport?

I was on my way to the airport on Sunday when, quite sensibly, I decided to check I had my passport. It would have been even more sensible to check before leaving the hotel, but hindsight's a wonderful thing. So is having a passport, which, at that moment on that pavement in Stockholm, I did not.
Normal people would panic at this point but I'm not normal. I always lose my passport and then, a few minutes later, I always find it again. No cause for alarm. I took a deep breath and had another look.
Still no passport.
I tipped everything out of my bag and on to the pavement. Nothing, but I still didn't panic. There are people who are good at losing things and people who are good at finding things. I'm one of the former. Harriet is one of the latter. She knows where everything is at all times and it's such an amazing skill that I enjoy testing her. I'll say, 'Do you know where the Euro plug is?' and she'll say, 'Fourth drawer, cabinet, shower room.' I'll say, 'Have we still got that book about mushrooms?' and she'll say, 'One's in the green box in the loft and one's in the office next to the book about bees.'
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Harriet was not in Stockholm and this was both good and bad news. It was good news because I could get on with the search without the eye-rolling. It was bad news because if she was here, the passport would be as well.
I still didn't panic.
Obviously I must have left it at the hotel. I packed my bag again and started running, not because I was panicking but because if I didn't run I'd miss the flight. So maybe panicking a little. The room was as I'd left it — tiny, sparsely furnished, not obviously containing a passport. I went through the bedding, I shook out the curtains, I looked in the mini-fridge and the bin. Nothing. I emptied my bag again. Still nothing.
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Then I decided to panic. I pulled off the bedsheets, flipped over the mattress, lifted up the cupboard and the rugs. Then I asked myself the world's most irritating question — 'Where did you last have it?' — and, to my astonishment, it helped. I last had the passport in this room yesterday morning. I had taken it out of my bag because I didn't want to lose it in the city because I know what I'm like.
Of the people who are good at losing things, there are those who just accept it and those who adapt. I have tried to adapt. With some success I have trained myself to put my wallet and keys on the hall table the minute I get home. As a result I am proud to say that the frantic morning wallet-and-key search is now an exception rather than the rule. I have a list on my phone of Where Weird Things Are. It says things like 'rugby boot stud spanner next to shoe polish' and 'shoe polish next to rugby boot stud spanner'. And when I check into a hotel I make a mental note of where I put my passport.
This system relies on good recall, which, in that sweaty, stressful moment, I did not have. All I could remember was that I'd put it 'somewhere clever' where burglars would least expect it — but the hotel room was tiny and I'd looked everywhere, clever and not clever.
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The UK government website says it takes at least 48 hours to process an emergency travel document. I tried hard not to think about all the logistical repercussions of spending 'at least' two more days in Sweden.
I ransacked the room again. Nothing. I looked at the bin. A flicker of a memory of a mental note. The newspaper? Maybe I'd put the passport inside to outfox the burglars and apparently myself. I grabbed it from the bin and shook it. No. I went back to the application: £125. Ouch. Plus a new flight. Ouch again. And hotels. Maybe one last look. And there it was, at the very bottom of the bin. It had dived out of the newspaper, commando-style, and snuck under a Coke can at exactly the wrong moment. In seconds I'd packed my bag again and was running. Could I still make the flight? I reached for my phone to check the time. No phone! Normal people would panic at this point but…

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