Waitangi day was Bob Marley's birthday, even though he is technically dead. I was fortunate enough to stumble upon a most excellent gig in celebration of the aforementioned follower of Halle Selassie at Sammy's night club. The door price was $4.20 as were drink specials in homage, the bartender explained, to the time of day when most Rastafarians lit up their first spliff.

The service was of the slow and thoughtful variety usually employed by church group members with learning difficulties who are attempting to host a fundraiser but the music was divine and despite the amount of time it took for the bartender to conduct the hand eye co-ordination necessary to pour my drinks I managed to consume a great deal of them.

By 11PM I was having a fabulous time and dancing with an enormous Polynesian man with strangely cold hands. It occurred to me in a haze that my lipstick might need fixing. That was when I discovered that peace and love and respect, all the wonderful tenants of Reggae music and the Nandor Tanczos chalice of goodness hadn't quite gelled with one member of the crowd, who had gone through my handbag and stolen my Roxy sunglasses, my wallet, lipstick and the cool reading glasses with white hole-punched arms from Seoul that I was saving for wearing the day I get a job.

I saw red (and green and gold, the table lamps being wrapped in the colours of the Rasta flag). Stomping to the door in the fury of the newly robbed, I saw my pink wallet sitting next to the till. This is when the spirit of Antonie Dixon possessed me and I found myself on a wave of rage I just could not get off.

The door staff tried to communicate that the wallet had been found on the floor and handed in by someone. I could not process this information. I was beyond reason. I may have frothed. The police were suddenly on the scene. 'Good,' I said, imagining that they had arrived to search the club for my glasses, slightly amazed that they had got there so fast. Actually, they had come to arrest me.

By now my boyfriend had come outside to find me. 'Chill out, man,' said one of the smokers. 'Are you insane?' I inquired of the policewoman who directed me to catch a taxi forthwith and go home. This afternoon a text arrived from the club's owner: 'No, your stuff hasn't turned up. In future, please do not intimidate my staff.' I am officially a thug. Readers, I feel thrilled and moronic, a heady mix.