I have one such bag. I adore it with a love that is beyond brands, material used and 70 per cent sale price tags. It is brown. And shiny. And has drawstring straps. And I could probably use it to kidnap a not too chubby toddler too with no one the wiser, unless of course, wailing sounds emanate from said bag at inappropriate time. I could also use this bag to transport half my kitchen in an emergency if the need so arises. On regular days of course, it is the repository of make up pouch containing more lipsticks than ever get pressed into service in a year, eyeliners, sunblock, glosss, liquid blush (which has the honour of being as virgin as it was when it was bought from the store), tweezers and thread (yup, when you have PCOD, very bad eyesight and a manic morning schedule, you never leave home without it, having suffered umpteen The Horror, The Horror moments when one caught a glimpse of self in store mirror and saw thick long strand grinning cheekily back at one from the chinnie chin chin), umpteen safety pins (buttons popping and zips splitting on one have been experienced in infinite Oh Mother Earth Swallow Me Now moments), and the spectacle case, the contact lens case and solution, the sunglasses, the wallet, the mobile, the infinite ball point pens, and such like to the point that if the phone rings it is actually easier to dump the contents of the bag on the nearest available flat surface rather than stick my head in and trying to find infernal ringing chain and ball from hell.
The other day, the phone rang when I was in a very very trying situation. At Hypercity. With the child. Correction. With the child running amok. And with me yelling at the top of my voice for the child to stand still in a single spot till I managed to hobble over to him. (Why hobble, you ask kindly, tis because I, in my zeal to knock off the kilos settled on my butt, climbed up and down 20 floors twice over and consquently had no legs left for three days. No legs that were in working condition, that is. Only legs that felt like they were made of blocks of wood and which refused to move in any direction the brain yelled commands at them to move towards, and just generally flopped down, bearing the rest of the torso on comfortable resting surfaces. Many salted hot water soaks, combiflams and iodex rubs later, I was in hobble hobble mode. And of course, without them stilettoes). In such precarious situations, phones which are decent well behaved phones are supposed to keep silent. And not ring insistently. Not this phone. No sirree. It began singing the dratted Airtel tune. (Yup. Lazy me has not yet set a ring tone). Between ear drum piercing yells which would have done a Red Indian off to gather some scalps proud, asking the child to get his scrawny butt within direct vision, I began fishing around in said bag. It would have been sensible to ignore said infernal ringing. But you know, it could be that call from the casting agent offering me the lead in the latest Hollywood blockbuster. Or it could be a call informing me that I’d won the sweepstakes. Or it could be a call to randomly gossip about folks I know. All of which made said call unmissable. People around began edging away from me, and the security staff began closing in gingerly, I could almost see them gesturing furtively for the straitjacket and the restraints. The infernal phone wouldnt stop ringing, and ringing, the child kept running, I kept hobbling as fast at block wood legs would allow me and yelling simultaneously. Finally it happened. I yelped in pain as something pointed and sharp bit my hand as it fished around searching for said infernal phone. It had finally happened. My bag had come alive, and contained a ferocious rabid animal which would emerge and eat me alive. Luckily, a staffer had grabbed the child by the teeshirt and frogmarched him to me. I pulled out my bitten hand and examined it tearfully. A drop of blood glared angrily at me. Dratted safety pins on the loose.
I have since vowed to downsize to a bag which has an easily accessible pocket for said misbehaving mobile. When I get round to doing that is another issue and another post. And I’m putting in them infant safety pins in the new bag. You know, the ones with the plastic elephants where the head of the pin should be. Dont stare at me the next time if you see a blue plastic elephant where an innocous discreet zip should have been. Its holding my sanity together.