Lost Property: Sorting Office

A sorting office at the back of a station, and a queue of people who cannot describe their own umbrella. Hand the right thing to the right person, and refuse the rest.

A shelf of things nobody meant to leave. Four claimants a day, three lines each, and none of them is much help. "It's black. Or navy. It's the kind that isn't a colour."

Find the thing and hand it over. Or decide it genuinely is not here and say so - which pays exactly the same, because being right about nothing is still being right. Hand over the wrong thing and it costs you twice.

Nothing is cleared overnight. What you do not return is still there tomorrow, and the day after, and that is the difficulty: a careless week is a sorting office you cannot read. At close, whatever has sat long enough goes under the hammer and you take a cut.

- Four hundred objects, and a description that never quite fits one
- A shelf that remembers, and things that come back
- Bags and cases that open, and sometimes have something in them
- Two or three minutes a day, and no timer anywhere in it

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