Feedback on My Handbag Experiment

Okay, so it's time for feedback on my handbag experiment. If you remember from my post last week, Designer handbags are for women who are afraid they they can't keep their man the experiment I'd planned was to take my best handbag to my book club and see how my lady friends reacted. Would my handbag impress them so much that they'd be able keep their smutty hands off the gorgeous Mr T? Here's the kind of reactions I was hoping to analyse:

Would any of them pull out their little black books and delete Mr T's phone number?

Would any of them turn bitchy and make snide remarks about my bigger than average bottom?

Would they take it in turns to knock against my chair and manoeuvre me out into conservatory to sit alone whilst they discussed Mr T's sexual prowess and I was salivated upon by an overly friendly dog?

Would they even be impressed by best handbag or would they take it in turns to viciously mock my fake snakeskin Burberry purchased from Primark for the princely sum of £5.99?

Okay, so you can see there was the potential for a lot analysis from my night out at the book club. Like the authors of the report who had inspired my previous post I planned to get at least a PHD thesis out of it and maybe even a Nobel Prize. If I really got my act together I was hoping for a ten year research grant from Yale.

Sadly, my analysis didn't go quite as planned. Here's why:

I arrived home from tennis with the boys at approx 7.15pm. Book club started at 8pm at Mrs P's in a nearby village. There was time enough to get ready and change into something less creased and frumpy. However, Mr T wanted a lift to another nearby village to go the pub with a friend so he got straight in the car and I drove him there. This took approx twenty minutes. I returned home at about 7.35 believing I still had fifteen minutes or so to put on some clean clothes, some lippy and transfer some stuff into my best handbag.

Unfortunately, it was not to be - as Master Jacob and Master Ben had put the catch on the inside of the door so I couldn't get into the house. I was locked out.

I knocked on the door. I banged on the door. I practically kicked the door in.

I rang the house phone using my mobile 13 times.

I sent Master Jacob 3 emails.

At 8pm I left my doorstep and went to Mrs P's wearing my dirty trousers, scrubby shirt and holding my daily Kipling handbag which is at least six years old and seen better days. The arms have also fallen off the novelty signature monkey keyring which is attached: it is an armless monkey. Sadly, I arrived at Mrs P's in a somewhat distressed state and worst of all - since I had to pick up Mr T later I didn't even get to have a relaxing alcoholic beverage.

There is a moral to this tale. I'm not sure what it is but it probably involves not letting your kids have a television in their room and it certainly involves not buying them headsets.

I will be conducting the handbag experiment at a later date. If I remember.

I am planning on mounting one of these on top of my car to increase my chances of actually getting into my own home. It will be also be useful for those occasions when I get cut up by male drivers and I need to give them a piece of my mind.

Me and My Laundry Pile - A Short and Sorry Tale of Ironing Incompetence.

Oh. Dear. God. I am in serious trouble, Readers.

My ironing pile has spiralled out of control. (I'm not even mentioning the dirty washing pile.) I have no idea where to start. I look in the utility room and I just want to die. Or at least get therapy.

I'm not sure if I can afford the therapy but I'm pretty sure that Mr T will wring my neck when he opens his wardrobe tomorrow morning and finds there isn't shirt.

I hate ironing. How do some people run ironing businesses? I would rather swim naked in a large pool of sewerage than iron for a living.

I was not destined to be a housewife. I was destined to be something else. Maybe a taxidermist. At least then I'd have somewhere to stuff my laundry out of sight.

Help.

Designer handbags are for women who are afraid they can't keep their man. Apparently.

This morning I read an article in The Daily Mail (yes, I've caved in and started reading some of that tripe again as it makes me feel intellectually superior ) which reported on an article in The Journal of Consumer Research. Apparently, the report claims that a woman's choice of handbag is a method she uses to tell other women to back off from her man and how much a woman spends on accessories is a sign of how much she feels threatened by the competition.

So my handbag choice, which is usually on the large side, has nothing to do with the fact that I like to carry a lot of stuff? You know - like spare knickers, epipens, shop receipts from 1982, several varieties of painkillers and indigestion tablets (essential for any woman approaching/in the menopause), eye drops, reading glasses, sunglasses, more reading glasses (I like to be sure I can see that tiny writing on food packaging that says 100grammes/1500 calories) and a various assortment of other essential equipment that are necessary for my and my children's existence. At one time this essential equipment used to include a nappy and a dummy but now it's usually a tennis ball and my bank card. Of course, the bank card is really the most important reason I carry a handbag - although I could just carry my purse or perhaps even wear it around my neck on a cord.

Okay, I'm lying. The spare knickers are the main reason I carry a handbag. But I refuse to wear them around my neck. It would just look silly.

Anyhow, if someone could please pass me some cardboard, glue and scissors. Also, some Semtex and brown paper would be appreciated as I'm going to make my own "handbag" and mail it to the report's authors as a reward for writing the biggest load of vacuous tripe I've read for a long, long time. And last week I read the Labour Party Manifesto so we're talking a seriously long time here.

Now, to look at this report in a more serious manner - if it had claimed that women buy bigger handbags so they can club their love rivals to death I might have had given it some some credence. But according to the psychology professor in charge of the research women buy designer handbags as a status sign and that other women infer such accessories means the owners are well provided for and have a "devoted partner."

*chokes on cornflakes*

Yeah, right. So you couldn't just treat yourself to a handbag with money you earnt yourself? Has this professor even heard of the feminist movement? You know, I'm not absolutely sure this professor's qualifications are genuine. Maybe he's trying to hide the fact he's really got a degree in Media studies by making up some crappy stuff about handbags? Because, let's face it, that's got be a helluva lot easier than stem cell research.

I'm going to my Book Club on Friday. I'm going to study my friend's handbags and see who is trying to warn me away from their husbands. However, I'm being honest with you now, Readers - I think most of them would willingly give me their husbands if I wanted them. Free of charge. Probably with a holiday thrown in.

I think I'll get out my best handbag for the Book Club (I'm not actually sure which one that is) and see if any of my lady friends notices. I shall be on my guard just in case I see any of them pull out a little black book and scrub out Mr T's telephone number. 

I shall report back on this vital matter next week. In the meantime, if you're a woman please ignore the stares of any woman looking at your handbag - the truth is they probably just noticed your left the clasp undone and your spare knickers are on show.

As a result of this blog I decided to sort through my old handbags to select one to take to The Book Club. These are my spare knickers found in a handbag from 1991. The spare knickers in my current hand bag are... somewhat larger. And less frilly. Possibly even a little more absorbent.

Yes, I am still alive! (Tales from the Summer Holidays)

Maybe you' re wondering if I'm still alive? Maybe you're not. If not, why not? Come on, folks, I hope at least one person has missed little 'ol Mrs T! Now just to prove I'm alive (even if only to myself) I am going to wriggle my toes.

Okay they're all wriggling. Apart from the one I broke. Yes, I've broken another toe. Thanks to a combination of Master Benedict's strategically placed trainers and a heavy glass pot. It was a painful experience indeed which, as you might expect, resulted in some profuse swearing but also the creation of some new art on the hall wall where the soles of Master Ben's shoes impacted. You see -I have a talent for creativity - even under the most arduous of circumstances.

You know, folks, not one of the males in the household came to my assistance when I screamed out as my toe was brutally pulverised. How shocking is that? The guilty party, Master Benedict, did later remark that he had heard me cry out in pain but hadn't felt the need to check if I was still alive. Comforting. Let's just hope I don't have a heart attack one day. Mr T who had gone to bed early (alcohol induced) slept through it and when I queried Master Jacob he gave me a look of blank incomprehension which is the expression most teenagers give after wearing their Xbox headset for three days. By the way, I also sent Young Sam, who is away at university, a telepathic message of distress but strangely enough I didn't hear from him either - in fact I'm still waiting for him to reply to my text message from New Year 2011.

Still, it's not all bad news regarding Young Sam; I have actually seen him this year. I didn't recognise him - but that's another story. He's just started an MA in philosophy and is sharing a flat with another philosophy MA student and a young German lad studying for a PHD in the philosophy of maths. Whatever the hell that is. I expect it could lead to some really dull and mind-numbing exciting and mentally challenging conversations. You know, a German studying philosophy kinda gets me worried. No reason. Just call me... cautious. Anyway, last Saturday I went to see Young Sam to drop off his Mastermind Chair and as I entered the lounge I found the other MA student polishing the coffee table. A mixture of emotions (surprise followed by a glowing pride that the lad would do such a thing to impress me) overcame me so that I blurted out;

Oh, no need to do that on my account!

At which point the lad looked up and said:

I'm cleaning the table because Colin is coming home later.

Colin is the German PHD student. So in another words, my son and his flatmate have more respect (or possibly fear) of their German flat mate than they do of me.

I am obviously failing in my duties. This is not something I have encountered before. I shall have to raise the stakes.

Anyway, I turned around and stamped down the stairs with Young Sam beside me shouting Schnell, schnell to his flatmate. I then drove off with the cash still in my wallet I had planned to give Master Sam.

Okay, I didn't drive off with the cash. I went to the cash point to get it across the road and it was one of those ones that charge you for the transaction.

That's all the excuse I needed, folks. The cash stayed in the cash point.

Anyway, I'm back. I'm alive and I am looking forward to meeting Herr Colin in the near future. I may have some more stories to tell.

This is very similar to Young Sam's Mastermind chair. I imagine it is where he will sit when he and his philosophy flatmates are discussing world affairs. I just hope Master Sam doesn't go into the civil service.