If you go looking in my pockets, I’m afraid you may get a little lost.

Pocket dimensions are tricky at the best of times, especially when you go looking for something.

So go on, now, find that IOU or a spare pen, perhaps when you slip your hand into my unattended coat you will see why I zip my pockets up so tightly.

For your arm may suddenly feel cold as you sink your elbow into the mystic pocket, but once it has you, it is much like a hoover that slurps anything through its cotton-lined horrors.

I’ve had friends go missing for days, only for my pocket at my side to suddenly grow heavy.

A hand pushes through, covered in filth. I open the pocket to its full potential and help the poor fool through.

They are ejected quite forcefully, sometimes nude, always in wide-eyed shock. “I… I thought you made the whole pocket dimension up…”

I get them a glass of water. “Did you find that old receipt? I have some trousers that need returning.”

More often than not it turns out to be clenched in their hand. “I had to go though a jungle filled with purple elephants and two-tailed snakes…”

I usher them home and help them as best I can before giving them a gentle scolding. “Now, this pocket contains dimensions. The other I keep my breath mints in.”

There’s a small nod, and they daren’t touch my things again.