For The Love of Orla

Carrying it all on my arm

So at this time of year I may spend an idle moment or two perusing the Orla Kiely handbags – if I were to have another one…? The last one bought in a moment of crisis nearly 16 years ago when reeling from having a baby. I strode to Orla’s flagship store in Covent Garden and rammed the buggy up the shop’s steps whereupon I bought myself a Crossbody (the trademark Kiely at the time) in eye-popping red lollipop design. I had my life back. 

When I split up with a boyfriend and had to move out of the flat the first thing I did was march into Brighton and buy myself an Antler holdall. A receptacle to transport myself to a new life. We carry our bags but do they in fact carry us?

Darling bag, always by my side, you have seen me through two babies, four house moves, the death of my mother, a few scary hospital encounters, some glorious holidays, the school pickups, hockey and rugby matches, weddings, funerals and a million supermarket runs - the good times and the bad.  Where would I be without you?

As my mother would say – a handbag dresses up any outfit (she did also say this about a jacket and pearls btw.) From slattern to sleek in the scoop of an arm.  Handbags always fit - unlike my jeans at the moment. When I can’t find my bag (why you need a huge one) I go into a mild panic - it needs to be there - ready for me to step out the door and board a train to Paris at any moment.  

They are our defence against the world. Once we would march to the shops with our bags on our arms and in testudo formation do battle in the Christmas high streets. Our bag as our shield. Grace Kelly knew it - legend has it she used her Hermès bag to conceal her pregnancy and so she gave birth not only to her daughter but also to the Kelly bag. The Queen knows it. Surely even The Crown will dare not allow the camera inside her handbag and poke around the secret world of a woman’s most private of parts? Her lady-in-waiting carries a spare pare of tights and she famously never carries money – so what can be in there? Sweeties? Betting slips? Passport photos of the kids? Oh how we long to know. Margaret Thatcher knew it. Described as the only ‘leakproof’ place in Downing Street, after the Brighton bomb it is was deemed the safest place to keep her speech for the next day and subsequently she always trimmed her speeches so they sat neatly inside her handbag. Her elevation of the handbag to ‘weapon’ led the Oxford English Dictionary to include the verb ‘to handbag’ as to treat a person ruthlessly or insensitively.  My darling Ma knew it. When she went into hospital – her handbag was always by her bed hiding secret cigarettes and lighter. In the homogenised hospital world of demeaning hospital gowns, her signature black patented bag was all she had left of the formidable woman she once was. Teasing through her black handbag the same swipem style of Mrs. T was a heartbreak. I unclipped the brass clasp – the amalgam smell of compact powder, cigarettes, and ink slumped me to the stairs. The half eaten packet of Polos, her Max Factor lipstick, the shopping list in her famous hand, the receipts – the trail of her life. If ever I need to recall her – I can open up the leather casket and drink her in.

My first handbag was pale beige leather - a saddlebag design with a neat popper to close the flap. A shoulder bag with one compartment and punched out flowers on the front flap. I had arrived. It contained my purse, an ironed handkerchief (every Girl Guide knew this was an essential substitute for a bandage) A small pot of Bourgeois rouge. With my rabbit’s foot keyring hung from the strap. I was free. The stepping-stone to womanhood. But even at the tender age of 11 – the roles were beginning to be defined.

So why is a handbag de rigueur for a woman but quelle horreur for most men? When we are at the airport, I see the olive-skinned Italian men with their gaucho swag bags worn low-slung and sexily on their hips. I say to my husband; “I think you could get away with one - especially on holiday”. A resolute “No. And don’t buy me one”.  He always insists on carrying all the important holiday documentation: passports, boarding passes, vast print outs of hotel directions resolutely in his Camelback rucksack – not very accessible, not very Gaucho and not at all sexy.

So why can men carry their life cinched in a money clip? Their whole life stuffed into their back pocket? Because they only have one job. They have roles – father, husband, shed builder etc. but these do not require accoutrements.  They carry money and credit cards maybe an AA card and National Trust membership at a push -  but these are thin wallety things not bulk items like rice crackers. Many men have us wives to carry the extranities of life. Our dinky handbags – once carrying the essentials of our independent lives now mule-like carry everything for everyone’s needs: baby wipes, asthma inhalers, suncream, snacks, notebook, crayons, Neurofen, tissues …  Like Mary Poppins we are expected to pull out any item that might be needed in any eventuality.

One woman in her time plays many parts.  Her handbag being seven ages (at least). Mother, wife, woman, writer teacher, cook, needlewoman, nurse, first aider, gardener, entertainer, story- teller… dangle from my waist.  On a modern chatelaine I would have – a pen, tweezers, notepad, dog lead, calculator ( maths homework) wooden spoon, rubber gloves, TV remote, lipstick, Fitbit, reusuable shopping bag, first aid kit, glasses, trowel, sunglasses…

One day I shall waltz onto a PanAm flight armed with my only my handbag and Penguin paperback. I will  slide my sunglasses onto my head and settle down in my seat casting a look over the wing before we take off – ordering gin and tonic and opening Tender is the Night.

But until that day - my bag is a palimpsest of my life. If I ever I am abducted I will hurl my bag into the bushes and the police will be able to delve back through the strata of my bag and see what I have been up to in the last few months. The red detective lines will wend a crazy spider path on the missing person board. So in the spirit of Kim’s Game - these are some of the items you would have to commit to memory:

Mac lipstick – Bric-o-la (name now never to be forgotten after it had been worn away but identified by colour alone by fabulous man in Brighton Mac store)

Theatre ticket – The Grinning Man , Trafalgar Studios – a lifetime ago.

An old Satsuma – hard, brown - almost mummified.

A landyard from a school I have now left

My purse – bulging contents so popper doesn’t pop

Gift voucher for House of Fraser – out of date

Coupons for the Co-op – out of date

Reusable shopping bags (3)

Fingerless gloves – ah that’s where they are

Scarf – cotton, spotty

Ibuprofen

Supermarket receipts - infinitum

List on back of envelope – of course

Pens – some with (shame) lids off.

Shortbread biscuit which accompanied coffee from hairdresser – taken to give to child.

Watch which needs a new battery (am on the way to the jewellers)

Face mask

Daughter’s Body Shop lip balm – stolen (from her not the shop)

Restaurant card from Italian café visited in the summer – oh balmy days

Asthma inhalers – brown and blue  

Postcard for ballet barre exercise class - must give this a go

Shampoo sample – from a long forgotten hotel

Ski lift pass – kept for nostalgia

Necklace – ah there it is

Paper bag from Greggs – am slattern despite having handbag

Poo bags

Suncream (I know it’s December)

So should it be the Messenger, the Gondola, the temptingly named Tostada? And which retro 70’s pattern? I love them all. Too many is not possible.

Mmmh The Messenger I think - adorable. And so organised.