A handbag?

All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That’s his.
(one of Oscar’s)

Last year, I realised to my alarm that I was sitting on a train rummaging in my handbag in exactly the same way as my mother. I even have stuff in it which causes double-takes, such as a roll of zinc oxide tape (good for when strappy sandals start to rub, or for pretending to be Charlie from Lost*). This uncanny new behaviour means that when I decided that the perfect gift for a milestone birthday was a handbag, I could not merely pop into Acessorize and grab the nearest metallic thing (that link is to wind up Annie, btw). I instead had to find something with:

  • the right length handles for shoulder or arm wearing, tricky when handles have gone short again
  • a zip (oh, the zip was important)
  • pockets of some kind
  • the right colour
  • the right volume
  • a flat enough base so that it stands
  • smart enough to be fashionable, stylish enough to be good for years

After days searching every single shop in Santa Cruz, because really you do expect to find good leather in Spain, and another week back home, I eventually found something. And she likes it, even announcing that the weight was right. Which is great in terms of “finding the perfect present” but more alarming from the “turning into one’s mother” perspective.

*and, btw – by the bloody way – how come his watch has changed this season? Eh? Last season he was wearing a leather cuff watch and now he’s sporting a standard man’s watch. Phht.

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