Handbags at Dawn.

   I'm more of a handbag girl; my guilty pleasure is bags. I don't even have a clue how many I own.
- Poppy Delevingne

I spend my life in financial dire straits, and His Nibs spends his in relative security.  This is because we have very different attitudes to payday.  My attitude is

“Payday, great, what can I buy with all this money?”, before I’ve even contemplated paying the mortgage or whether the car tax is due. 

His attitude is

“Oh, payday, well I’ll just pay my half of the mortgage and leave the rest where it is, to keep me alive for the rest of the month.”

These differing attitudes have led to many difficult conversations in our house.  Conversations where I accuse His Nibs of being a skinflint, and he informs me that I am hopeless with money, and that he's fed up of my monthly salary lasting a week.  Because then he has to bail me out. 

Last week, in a fit of pious righteousness, I went insane and informed His Nibs that this month I’m going to control myself.  I’m not going to buy anything except groceries.  I don’t need anything, I informed him wildly.  I have everything my heart desires. 

I am such a complete fecking eejit.

We got paid on Friday.  I felt the need to shop so keenly that I voluntarily went to the supermarket and bought the groceries.  Things were very bad.

On Saturday, we decided we’d go to Kilkenny.  I brought a very small handbag with me.   It quickly became clear that the bag was going to drive me bonkers all day.  For one thing, my purse doesn’t fit in it, so any cash was just scattered around the bottom of the bag, unfettered.  Also, the bag was so small it had no weight in it and kept falling off my shoulder, which I found annoying beyond measure.

As we strolled down a sun dappled street, I suddenly galloped off, into a department store.  I could hear His Nibs shouting, asking where I was going.  I yelled back that I’d only be a minute, to relax and wait for me.

His Nibs does not understand my relationship with handbags.  I love them.  I can find any excuse to justify the purchase of a new one.  The excuse is usually that the old one has too much rubbish in it, and is annoying me, and I’ve kind of gone off it anyway, so I just buy a new one and leave the old one in the spare room, minding my old lighters and lidless lipsticks.

His Nibs does not accept this as a reason to buy another bag.  In fact, he hates when he goes into the spare room and finds a row of handbags on the bed, like a police line-up. 

I knew he’d give out stink if he caught me buying a handbag on Saturday.  And even worse, this time I’d literally have asked for it.  Because I had instructed him to stop me if he saw me buying anything but groceries.  I can’t understand what came over me.

I couldn’t believe I’d been stupid enough to bring that little bag with me, on a trip to a lovely shopping town like Kilkenny.  How would I hide any sneaky purchases I made while he was preoccupied?  I couldn’t relax, worrying about it.

So I ran into the department store.

I didn’t have long.  I knew that he’d eventually follow me, suspicion in every step. It was like a military exercise.  I stood on the steps just inside the door of the shop, and looked at the room from a height.  The women’s department was to my left, toward the back of the store.  Good. His Nibs would take a little while to find me, which would give me more time to complete my purchase before hearing “Not another handbag.  No, put it back, come on, you promised” from behind me.

I took another second and squinted.  In the distance, I saw a flimsy looking fabric, moving in the draught as a woman went past.  It had to be a scarf.  The accessories section.

Off I went, as fast as my legs could carry me, which is not very fast at all, in case you’re interested. I wanted a large, but sort of floppy handbag.  After all, I reasoned to myself, every other woman out there has one, I deserve one (this was preposterous.  Every woman on the street was not carrying such a handbag).  I’d closed my mind to the stacks of large floppy handbags in the spare room.  Sure they were no good to me there, were they? The little bag was driving me mad now.

To be honest, I didn’t love any of the bags.  One was okay, but it had one of those handbag organisers taking up most of the inside, defeating the whole purpose of a big bag.

I’d almost given up when I caught a glimpse of something, at the very back of the shelf.  This one was better.  I looked inside.  Big, floppy, black.  With a bit of plaited fibre stuff around the bottom, like the sole of an espadrille.  It might work, it was a possibility…. The only problem was that there was no zip on the top, so not very safe.  However, attached to the inside of the bag was another little bag, with a zip, for your wallet and phone, so nobody can put their hand in your bag and make off with your valuables.  Yes, I decided, it would do.

As I rushed to the till I could hear the Mission Impossible music playing in my head.  I arrived at the same time as a woman carrying an armful of tee shirts.  I waved the bag, so she’d know I only had one thing.  But the big fecker just said “sorry” and went first.  I was nearly hopping with anxiety.  I kept looking over my shoulder, expecting His Nibs to come gliding over and put a stop to my gallop before I heard the satisfying beep of the till.

I wonder what they thought of me in there.  Running in, wearing large sunglasses, nearly ripping the handbag shelf apart, then practically jogging on the spot while waiting to be served.  They must have thought I was late for my cocaine consignment handover or something.

Finally I got to the till.  The woman asked if she should take the paper stuffing inside the bag out. “God yeah” I was practically hyperventilating “I don’t want my husband to know about it.”

She looked at me carefully.  “Are you ok, love?”

OK, I was being a bit dramatic.  Truth be told, I’d been quite enjoying myself.  I like a bit of innocent subterfuge.  I took my sunglasses off and smiled at her.

“I’m grand, thanks.  I’m not supposed to buy anything I don’t need.  Especially not handbags.  But this little yoke is driving me mad.”  I waggled the small bag at her.

She got it immediately.

“Where is he?”

“Right outside the door.”

“OK.  She whipped out a scissors and took the price tag off the bag.  She took the payment, and gave me the receipt to tuck into my pocket.

“Empty that bag into this one, quick now.  What does he look like?  He’s not a tall lad with grey hair, is he?”  She was looking over my head, a look of concern on her face.

“No, he’s about my height, wearing a hat”

“You’re grand, he’s not there.  Now, I’m not going to give you a bag for the old one, he’ll only ask you what’s in it.  Isn’t it great they’re both black?  He’ll never see it.”  She had her hand in my new bag now, tucking the old one along the bottom.  She gave the bag a few shakes to settle everything into it.

“Now, act normal and he won’t have a clue.  I swear, they don’t look at handbags at all.  Good luck.”

I didn’t believe her.  His Nibs can spot a new handbag from a mile off.  But I put the bag up on my shoulder and brazenly stepped out of the shop.  He looked directly at my empty hands.

“Oh, you didn’t buy anything.  You must be serious.”  He grinned at me, and we went off for a coffee, my guilt weighing me down more than the two handbags I was now carrying. 

I was sure he’d catch me.  It’s not like he’d lock me out of the house or anything, but he’d be giving out and we were having a lovely day, and I just wanted to get away with it.  I never get away with anything.

About an hour later, we were wandering back the way we’d come, for a drink.  We passed the department store again.

“What did you go in there for, earlier?”

“Trainer socks.”  When did I learn to lie like this?  I’m usually the worst liar in the history of the world.  “They didn’t have the ones I wanted.”

I had to tell him in the end.  He’s a good husband, he reads this blog every week.