The Holy Trinity

I found it really amusing when I was growing up that as my dad left for work in the morning my mum would chant down the stairs after him,
"Got your wallet? Got your lunch? Got your hanky?" Dad was, after all,
a grown man - surely he could be trusted to leave the house fully equipped for the day ahead.

Ha. If you know me even slightly, you'll know that I suffer a strange detachment from such extraneous things as wallets, arms, legs and so on. I frequently whack myself on door frames as I walk through them because I'm not really paying attention to where my elbows are. They seem to belong to someone else's body. This vagueness also applies to my personal effects. Once I've put it down, I can't remember where it is. I should some time ago have had rings attached to my body from which I could hang all my essential possessions, and if you've seen inside my handbag you'll know there are HUNDREDS of those bastards.

Consequently, 10 minutes before I'm due at work I'll be screaming around the house trying to find my keys, which will usually turn out to be located somewhere logical like in a pot plant, in one of my shoes, in the fridge or - once, famously - still dangling from the car's tailgate after locking it (oops) the previous evening.

"Don't put down, put away," says my grandma. I don't seem the type to go quite that far, but leaving the house this morning I caught myself chanting under my breath as I sorted through my bag. "Keys, wallet, mobile."
Thanks, Mum. But perhaps the trinity needs to be a...thing with four parts.
Keys, wallet, mobile, security pass. I looked, I swear it was there - blue lanyard, check. What did I try and swipe myself into the station with?
The cat's new leash.