I am sitting on a tube train with a baby blue woman’s handbag. Two older women are sitting on either side of me with their handbags on their laps. My handbag is also on my lap – I am aware of how this looks but there is nowhere else to put it.
I have the bag as my wife had packed it full of precious things that she needed for an after-work party. She couldn’t take it because it was too heavy. Now, as planned, I am meeting her for lunch with aforementioned bag. I feel strange.
The recent trend of man-bags has confused things. It is no secret that I am not a fan of man-bags, probably because they have only been adopted by underweight men who keep obscure vinyl records and art and drugs in them. I am not like these men and therefore wouldn’t feel right carrying a man-bag. I decide to remember not to buy one. Ever.
However, a man-bag is very different from a handbag.
A man sitting opposite me stares at my bag. He has noticed it is a woman’s bag and that it is mine. He has a beard. A manly beard. He has a manly beard and I have a womanly bag. He strokes his beard and I stare at it wishing I had one. If I had a beard like that everyone would surely know that there is no way the bag could be mine. No man with such a beard would carry a bag like this. The man is looking at me looking at his beard. I avert my eyes and look around at everyone else.
Everyone else is looking at my bag.
I consider making a pretend phone call to talk loudly about the bag and how it isn’t mine. Unhappily, I realise that I put my phone in the bag before I left home – this was based on the idea that I had a bag and so might as well use it. I imagine myself rummaging through the bag on my knee and the beardy man opposite me nodding to himself in smug confirmation. I sweat. There is literally no way I can rummage.
The train is approaching my stop. The lady on my left is looking closely at the bag. I am worried she is going to ask me where I bought it. But then, I realise, a question would be a very good thing. I could answer that I don’t know anything about the bag as it is my wife’s. Then everyone would laugh, pat me on the back and realise that I am normal. I look at her and smile in what I hope is a friendly and encouraging way. Apparently it isn’t. Distrust flickers immediately across her face and she turns her head sharply to look at something that isn’t me or my bag. In my heart I know that any hope of a bag question is lost.
I return my gaze to the beardy man. Now, I don’t mean to stare at him, but he is seated in the default position for my stare. Politely, I search for something above his head to look at. I lock onto a funny advert. I start to read it and chuckle. By the time I have finished I notice that no one is looking at my bag. Everyone is carrying on with their own business and thinking about emails and who smells of wee (...yes there is a smell of wee in the tube carriage).
No longer the subject of scrutiny, I am overjoyed and filled with appreciation for my fellow man. Clearly, people are rarely as simple-minded as I believe them to be. I stand up and walk towards the doors that have already begun to open. I step out of the door with a smile on my face and renewed hope for humanity.
‘Nice bag mate!’ I hear, as the doors swoosh behind me.
That was probably the wee person, I tell myself.
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