No, no, trust me. I really did. I have been so amazingly good that I have passed on/ chucked away almost three fourths of my stash which leaves me with exactly six bags. One leopard print horror that I can swing at a muggers head and kill him with instantly thanks to the junk that gets dumped into it. One pale gold Guess number that I refuse to carry around everyday lest small children run after me with stones. A nice python and canvas Guess which is smart bag. Translate that into nothing I need to carry apart from my wallet and handbag fit into it. And perhaps maybe, in a squeeze one tiny weeny lipstick. For a woman who has, at any given point, live creatures growing in her handbag thats like being in solitary confinement without even the pleasure of an echo to talk back to and give some lip.
And a couple of other nondescript versions that are good bags, sturdy bags, smart bags, that do absolutely nothing for me because they’re so blah blah blah. I need some colourand drama on me, and what better than a handbag to do the needful without me having to get into clown get up.
Therefore, it was with absolutely no intent to buy in my mind that I accompanied the grandmother to the bustle of Lokhandwala market the other day. The apparent task on the agenda was purely gifting purposes. The elderly relative is to visit the native land in a month, and there is as is natural when one visits the natives, gifts have to be showered.
It was only by fluke, therefore, that one passed a shop that had a throng of women behaving so abyssmally outside it that they could have been booked for rioting and disorderly behaviour in a public place and read out their rights. On contributing self to disorderly behavior throng, one found out that said chaos was due to clearance sale situation, which, hold your breath, had bags being sold at Rs 500. Now these were bags I had seen in the days of window shopping being sold for nothing less than Rs 1500 to 2000, therefore the rioting was absolutely justified, and one leapt right into the throng and began sorting out the piles of handbags for stuff I could dump the kitchen sink in and still have room for more.
I must confess, in the fury of drilling through the pile I forgot completely about the grandmother surfaced for air after a good ten minutes to find her having pushed through the crowd to the front and doing her own drilling through the pile. Not even pausing for breath.
And so it came about that we walked home, or rather called for the driver to get the car round to where the shop bearing Clearance Sale sign was located, in the manner of two amiable drunks, laden with not one, not two, not three but five bags. A red mock croc print patent leather type for yours truly. A brown buckskin huge tote for yours truly again. A giraffe print beige and gold number for yours truly again. And two simple and decent, not my words, bags for the grandmother. By implication, you can surmise what my bags are. But never mind.
And yes, these are all my very rough use numbers. They will be flung on dirty chairs, kept on floors, overloaded with waterbottles, kiddy clothes, tiffin boxes and such like. And if they last through such unspeakable abuse for more than a month I would be delighted.
What is it about bagging bargains that gives me a bigger high than the big O?