I would like to be the kind of person living the kind of life which, rendered in fiction, would begin:
She entered the day armed with nothing more than the memory of a kiss, lightly planted, and a cheese sandwich which she had made from semi-matured cheese and white, preservative-laden bread.
I enter the day having given little thought to lunch, but having always double-checked that in my bag I have my keys, my purse, my phone, my diary, notebook, pencil, pen, sunglasses, spectacles, a camera (full card and empty battery) and a lipstick which I will rarely remember to reapply.
This morning, I swapped bags, preferring the blue tote over the maroon with shoulder straps. I like the blue tote, its only fault being that even when I hold it with the red and gold insignia visible just so, it is not the kind of bag about which people say, ‘I like your bag’ and so, I never get to say, in an unforced, casual way, ‘Oh this? Thank you. I made it.’
It’s for the best, because, having said, ‘I made it,’ I would not be able to stop myself from adding, ‘I got the fabric at that flea market in Paris.’ And I would probably then say, ‘The woman on the stall gave it to me for free because youngest lad charmed her.’ The types of people by whom I like to be liked do not like wankers.
On account of changing the bags, I did actually forget my phone (leaving that always up there something less than ‘always’, but difficult now to replace) which forced me to return home between dropping the lads at school and going to work. Silver linings and lemonade: I was in the car when the man on Abu Dhabi Classics back-announced Bach’s Air on a G String and, like Iron Knob, Air on a G String never gets old, n’est-ce pas?