wheee!
One batch of marking down, two more to go, four hours' sleep last night. I am high on sleep dep and the incredible relief of killing the shambling monstrosity that is a foot-high stack of Frankenstein scripts. Also, it's bucketing with madly unseasonable rain, my garden is happy, and I'm all exuberant with the simple joy of damp. (See Childhood, Zimbabwean, Drought-Stricken, for the use of). Being basically incoherent I shall, for no adequately defined reason, proceed to babble about handbags.
I have the handbag bug but bad, and have always admired the self-control of women who don't. (Go on, own up). Some vague, subliminal hope that I might at any moment fall through a wormhole, be collected by the Tardis or otherwise be whisked away to a better existence, leads me to evince a deep-seated need for basic life support items to be on my person at all times. Since this category includes not just the usual wallet/keys/diary/pen but variously,
I tried very hard to overcome this pantechnicon tendency: when my lovely leather bag, courtesy of my sister, gave up the ghost six months ago, I resolutely bought a much smaller one and resolved to be disciplined. This didn't work even faintly. Apart from the frustrations of being denied the correct tea, falling over my feet in the dark, failing in my duties as Headache Drug Pusher to my immediate social circle, and missing that poignant, unmistakable frisson that comes from reaching into one's handbag and feeling fur, I could never find anything in the jam-packed space.
So now I figure that I'm going the wrong way about appeasing Anoia, who is undoubtedly Goddess of Things Being Scrabbled For In The Bottom Of Handbags in addition to her other multitudinous duties. Bugger all this restraint. Restraint is over-rated. My new handbag is a sturdy canvas monstrosity with nine separate zip-up pockets and a cellphone pouch. It can hold A4-sized objects, making it suitable for secreting small piles of essays if necessary. It has oodles of space and a sort of interesting space/time arrangement which enables whatever I'm looking for to spring into my hand without the need for extended groping. In a pinch, it could stash a three-course meal, a bottle of champagne, a sawn-off shotgun and/or all three of the cats.
Better still, the final optimum arrangement of junk to pockets leaves one zip-up external pocket free that is exactly the right length for my knitting needles. This was meant.
And, to return to the vague thought which prompted this whole celebratory rant, it'll easily hold my camera. This means I will routinely be able to randomly photograph things that catch my eye, like interesting billboards, interesting clouds or the wonderful contraption I fell over on my way to my office this morning: a three-storey telescoping pole with a brush on the end, used to wash windows, and manipulated by a muscular gent who wields the whole thing at about a forty-five degree angle, panting and sweating. It was a wonderful combination of perfectly logical and perfectly silly.
I have the handbag bug but bad, and have always admired the self-control of women who don't. (Go on, own up). Some vague, subliminal hope that I might at any moment fall through a wormhole, be collected by the Tardis or otherwise be whisked away to a better existence, leads me to evince a deep-seated need for basic life support items to be on my person at all times. Since this category includes not just the usual wallet/keys/diary/pen but variously,
- a tape measure,
- an electric torch, Leatherman and random screwdrivers,
- a notebook for inscribing Great Thoughts and sudden sizzling ideas for papers,
- my cellphone (mostly, when I remember), a memory stick and my Ipod (or, rather, dragonroost's Ipod on long-term loan, loaded with my music),
- several packs of tissues for purpose of Sid-control,
- UV blocker, cortizone, hand cream, lip balm, antihistamines for allergy attacks, three types of headache pill,
- comb, hairbrush, hair clips, glasses case,
- jo&stv's spare house keys,
- the book I'm currently reading,
- my shopping list,
- a supply of chocolate and the only permissible Earl Grey (Twinings)
- and, for two memorable weeks, three mouse-shaped cat toys with Real Mouse Fur that I kept forgetting to remove,
I tried very hard to overcome this pantechnicon tendency: when my lovely leather bag, courtesy of my sister, gave up the ghost six months ago, I resolutely bought a much smaller one and resolved to be disciplined. This didn't work even faintly. Apart from the frustrations of being denied the correct tea, falling over my feet in the dark, failing in my duties as Headache Drug Pusher to my immediate social circle, and missing that poignant, unmistakable frisson that comes from reaching into one's handbag and feeling fur, I could never find anything in the jam-packed space.
So now I figure that I'm going the wrong way about appeasing Anoia, who is undoubtedly Goddess of Things Being Scrabbled For In The Bottom Of Handbags in addition to her other multitudinous duties. Bugger all this restraint. Restraint is over-rated. My new handbag is a sturdy canvas monstrosity with nine separate zip-up pockets and a cellphone pouch. It can hold A4-sized objects, making it suitable for secreting small piles of essays if necessary. It has oodles of space and a sort of interesting space/time arrangement which enables whatever I'm looking for to spring into my hand without the need for extended groping. In a pinch, it could stash a three-course meal, a bottle of champagne, a sawn-off shotgun and/or all three of the cats.
Better still, the final optimum arrangement of junk to pockets leaves one zip-up external pocket free that is exactly the right length for my knitting needles. This was meant.
And, to return to the vague thought which prompted this whole celebratory rant, it'll easily hold my camera. This means I will routinely be able to randomly photograph things that catch my eye, like interesting billboards, interesting clouds or the wonderful contraption I fell over on my way to my office this morning: a three-storey telescoping pole with a brush on the end, used to wash windows, and manipulated by a muscular gent who wields the whole thing at about a forty-five degree angle, panting and sweating. It was a wonderful combination of perfectly logical and perfectly silly.