actual key loss memorial to end tale

Thinking back where the (un)loss of key takes me back, to one time of actual loss of key, I was but a schoolboy -- and a meagre schoolboy at that, inefficient, uncrushed -- and in fact the key was still with me, in my schoolboy garments, specifically the "blazer", a kind of "jacket", there was a hole in my jacket, specifically the pocket of the jacket, the "breast pocket", it being close to my nipple, one of them, perhaps the left, where the key was stored five days a week, it (key) had slipped into the lining, through the hole, in the left breast pocket of the jacket of the school uniform, which is a prelude to "work-wear", if you can't help it.

Perhaps my teenage nipple had been transmitting phantom hormonal particles and contributed to "wear and tear" in the proximity.

I did not know about the hole in the pocket. Otherwise I would have not had a problem with losing the key, I would know to look for it past the pocket hole. Past the pocket hole is the "lining". But if the key was not there then I would panic. Would panic further. Sometimes I think that's all the future is. Or "entails".

Therefore, to all "intents and purposes" I had certainly lost my key. It was lost through the hole in my pocket. It was in the lining of the jacket called "blazer". I did not know that. The lining of things like those clothes gives me an upset queasy feeling.

(contemplation of an afterlife spent forever and all alone between two infinite sheets, a little tension beneath enough to crawl on, above hangs down droops drapes over as a little interference to your crawling wherever you go for however long the same situation inescapable, the sheets unrippable, no flame at hand, you would wish to burn yourself and the always-there sheets, all of this afterlife world but you can't)
I make an anxious bad tailor.

I maybe never properly lost a key, this makes me embarrassed 

the ground floor old man found me sitting outside (perhaps there were two keys, we were living in a sort of old people home appartment zone, with I am sure some security features, ie, a communal door locked for starters) it was during wimbledon.  He made me a cup of tea and taught me how to pronounce the name of the tennis player "ivanisovich" : "ivan is a witch" with necessary consonant flattenings etc taken in to um consideration.  But I think I already knew how to pronounce that etc.    Tennis is OK to watch for a while, then it becomes highly boring.  That is why the audience like to eat strawberries.   The olympics is very very boring, very soon after the initial Oh this may be interesting, passing moment.

"...competent

keyless

citizen..."