"... I carry water
in a side pocket
but often forget it’s there
I’m full of good intention
but easily distracted
by bookshops
cake and coffee ..."
The other day, whilst out road cycling, I stopped at a small cafe for tea and cake. I was off piste, and found myself trying a new-to-me place in a pretty market square east of York. It was a good choice: the tea was Yorkshire (of course!) and the fruit scone was delicious. But I felt out of place. There were four women on a table adjacent to me, two behind, and another two in the far corner. It was like one of those TV dramas, where everything, including the actors, are colour-matched. At each table, the women shared a particular palette, which once spotted, was hard to ignore. They were women of a similar age, beautifully groomed, chic outfits, expensive handbags. I stuck out like a sore thumb, clad in my lycra and bright cycling jersey. They ignored me, and I didn’t mind one bit.
Funny how we all have our tribes, our places to hang out, our choice of leisure interests and even pets. They say owners take on the look of their dogs, and perhaps there’s some truth in that; although it’s more likely that people choose pets that reflect their personalities. Of course, sometimes we might make very conscious choices to fit in and/or identify with a certain group, but I expect much of the time we do it without thinking. We make statements about ourselves all the time, purposefully or otherwise, in how we dress, where we eat, what we read etc.
I’ve been experimenting recently with some writing exercises, and was prompted to write about the contents of my handbag. This week’s poem is the result. I’ve always had trouble with handbags if I’m honest. I was very much a tom-boy growing up and didn’t possess a handbag until I was in my 20’s and working full time. When I joined a uniformed service, I was issued with an ugly, functional handbag of black leather. I was told in no uncertain terms, by colleagues, to banish said bag to the back of my locker, never to see the light of day again. I was happy to oblige.
Unlike our late queen and our first female PM, who made very firm statements with their handbags, I never knew what I was saying with mine. But when it comes to what’s inside my bag, well that’s less contentious. Before the invention of the smart phone, I would always carry paper and a pen of some kind. There were other stalwarts such as sanitary products (thankfully no more!), wallet and keys. Other items have changed over time. When living in London and travelling by pubic transport, there was always a book on the go. Nowadays, there’s usually water, my phone, yet more keys, and a stash of emergency medical supplies.
In writing this week’s poem, I’ve realised just how much my bag of choice and its contents, says about me. This revelation leaves me partly thinking, well, of course, that’s obvious, whilst also feeling incredulous that my bag and its contents give so much of me away. What about you? What kind of bag do you carry, and what’s inside it? How much does it say about you do you think? Write and ponder a list of what’s in there – you may or may not be surprised!
fi wynne writes 