My Other’s Keeper
A few years ago I remember being mightily impressed when my niece arrived for tea with only a mobile about her person. No need for money, tickets or mirror – and apparently no need for hairbrush, make-up bag, tissues, umbrella, book, pen… I could go on, but the personal testimony of my handbag will give you some idea of the requisites I find it impossible to leave the house without.
Mind you, I’m not only carrying all this stuff round on my own account. I’ve realised how much Mr Verity has in common with our late Queen: he never carries cash (and rarely a card). At least Her Maj had the grace to disguise the fact by carrying an exquisitely matching handbag that looked as though it could contain a purse along side the lippie and powder compact.
Add to the above tissues, lip balm, pens for the crossword, and these are all the little necessities that I’m toting around day in, day out, ready to dispense at a moment’s notice. When Mr Verity holds out a hand and intones ‘Sunscreen’ without even looking at me I feel like the most junior nurse in the operating theatre.
Come Covid, I had to add hand gel to the list, and eventually the inevitable happened: it leaked out all over the bottom of the bag and would not wash out but set fast.
Mr Verity’s horror of spending more than thirty seconds in a shop means that once we’ve agreed on what to buy, he will exit the premises to wait for me outside (putting paid to any thoughts I might have had of aimlessly cruising around touching things), leaving me to pay, pack up the goods and for some reason carry them for the foreseeable future.
‘Can I put this in your bag?’ is the perennial request if Mr Verity buys something on his own account, and there’s usually enough room for it. ‘This’ sometimes turns out to be rubbish, as we are a public-spirited pair and diligent in our efforts not to despoil our environment, so my bag often contains a layer of detritus to be decanted into a bin when we get home. Perhaps this was what made a passing dog in the park think that my lovely straw bag was a receptacle for its waste, too…
But the beast of burden has struck back: I’ve persuaded Mr Verity to acquire a man bag, and even to carry it on some occasions. What’s more, not being one of those slim leather clutch bags favoured by Mediterranean men, it will accommodate a newspaper, which is beyond the scope of my handbag.
In my next life, I will not be carrying anything for anyone. In fact, in my next life I want to be carried myself, on a richly decorated palanquin. But will Mr Verity be with me in my reincarnation, shouldering one corner of the load? I do hope so.*
*And not just because of his weight-bearing properties, honest!
An article that hits home. I’m sure every man says ‘Can I put it in your bag?’ at some point.
I reread the personal testimony and enjoyed the bag’s lament.
… and then they wonder why you can’t lay your hands on your keys instantly!