Roger Rabbits with Jim Bunny

Today we delve where few rational, reasoned men have delved. Or have wanted to. Deep into the darkest, mysterious recesses of a woman’s handbag. What the hell goes on in there? 

Serious stuff goes on in handbags. 

An American woman explained her handgun would be in her handbag if it wasn’t on her hip. Imagine going to work or dinner locked and loaded. “Pass my handbag honey, I need my very versatile 9mm Glok-19 Gen3.” Sweet, loveable and deadly. 

Or another woman who uses her handbag to test her husband’s love. “I go through my bag and tot up how much it would cost to replace the bag and everything in it. Then I tell my husband and watch him flip out.”  

A couple of droll responses to the age old ‘what’s in the handbag’ question - “The heads of my enemies”, “my sanity”, “whatever energy I have left for the day” and “tools for overthrowing the patriarchy.”  

Closer to home… a handbag arrives at work every morning. It’s hanging off a human, five kilograms of life’s excesses in just one tote. Yup, five kilograms. We know it’s five kilos because she weighed it for us.  

In goes a hand. Up to the cubitus. And the rummaging starts. And it goes on. Mumble, rummage, mumble, rummage. 

It’s not a magic carpet bag from which celluloid’s Mary Poppins pulls objects larger than the bag itself. “But still a cavernous bag of crap,” admits our very own Mary. And one from which she pulls bits and bobs from throughout the day. But never a Glock. Nothing ever more life threatening than a nail file. 

At risk of sounding creepy, prurient, or stepping unwelcome into sovereign space, I suggest an inventory. “Come on, let’s see what’s in there?”  And she agreed because she was interested to know what was in there too.   

“Probably a lot of stuff I haven’t seen for months!” But essential stuff you might need and use if you knew it was in there. 

We didn’t up end the bag and trawl through the contents. Would never be so rude. It was more a lucky dip.  

Fourteen lipsticks or lip balms.  14! “Don’t like or use half of them.” Perfumes x2. Keys, hair tie, brush, sunglasses, prescription glasses. “Mmm…. certainly a lot of s**t in here.  

Receipts, many receipts, $1000 for the dentist, all scrunched at the bottom of her bag. One receipt so old the print had disappeared. “Found the nail file I was looking for.” 

Men accept a woman’s handbag is sacrosanct. It holds deeply personal stuff men neither understand nor want to know about. if we’re asked to retrieve something from her bag, you pass the whole bag, because whatever is going on in that bag is none of your business. 

Cotton buds, old loyalty cards, old work ID cards, a covid face mask, probably in readiness for the next pandemic, a Sistema snap box full of vitamins, more cotton buds, a mirror and a dog poop bag. Never know when you might need a poop bag in the office. 

So, what’s the point? Curiosity really, nosing, inquisitiveness.  And it’s fun.  

Band aids, breath mints, dental floss x2, headphones, charger, vitamins, pain relief, wallet, deodorant, antibiotics, rescue remedy, moisturiser, glasses cleaner. “I surprise myself” says the bag owner.  

And when she had lost interest, ‘Mary’ just laughed and shoved everything, including that blank receipt, back into the handbag. An opportunity for serious and therapeutic de-cluttering was lost. The chance to get a life and bag organised was lost. And tomorrow there would be more rummaging and mumbling. 

“Two Bags” strides in every morning with two bags. One contains gym gear because she works out lunchtimes and returns glowing with health.

As a generational contrast, when we were young reporters, we would go for a free counter lunch at the pub next door.

Two Bags’ other bag is a well-stocked larder. Brimming with stuff from aisle three at the supermarket.

Cereal and snack bars, fruit snacks, meat snacks, muesli bars, whole grain crackers and scroggin, the sweet, savoury and salty.

Great word scroggin – kind of onomatopoeic but not. Then the scrunching and the crunching starts. She’s aware I am aware. It’s hard to snack sneakily. Snacking is noisy.

“OK clever d**k,” she remonstrates. “What’s in your bag.”

Women might think a man bag is a repository of salacious and sports magazines, racing form guides, prophylactics, boxing gloves and fast food vouchers because that’s what blokes are like.

But no! In my laptop bag there’s no laptop, but there is a cluster of biros looted from the work stationery cupboard, although below the threshold for theft as a servant.

A crumpled version of a work contract, crucial phone numbers but no names, and a card and obstetric ultrasound pregnancy scan telling a father he will be a grandfather. What a riveting personality I am. 

The advice is a once-a-week clear-out - an uncluttered handbag leads to an uncluttered home, an uncluttered mind and an uncluttered life.