My purse, when I got home this evening, contained:
One fuzzy hat.
One notebook.
One thin black shawl thing.
One copy of my resume.
My wallet.
My cell phone.
My bus pass.
A hardcover copy of Courtesans and Fishcakes, by James Davidson.
One jar of homemade pear chutney (a gift from a neighbour in return for homemade sourdough).
A Kaboodles Toy Store business card.
A copy of O Jerusalem, by Laurie R. King (um, which I meant to loan to
noveldevice at her birthday party [Happy birthday Cat! Also: I have a book to loan you. :D])
My iPod.
A tuner.
A cake of rosin.
Three black gel pens.
A Moleskine planner that I don't use as much as I should.
A bracelet that I took off at a party and stuck in my purse last week.
Two pencils made of recycled newspaper.
A Green and Black's cherry chocolate bar.
A tube of lip gloss.
In a side pocket: a half-finished knit glove, attached to a ball of bamboo yarn and five double-pointed needles.
Eyedrops.
And a goodie bag from the birthday party, which contains, among other things, those candies with the fizzy centres and a plastic Tyrannosaurus Rex.
... I think I have a problem. (Also a very large purse. Fortunately.)