Byline: Gillian Glover
LONG and bitter are our days and the green shoots thereof will be rendered into skin, bone and brittle metal, to fade and stiffen with the chill fingering of aeons. Thus spake Zarathustra, the handbag seller on the steps of the Rialto, circa 1400.
Nobody listened. But his distant nephew, Salvatore Ferragamo, unborn by as many generations as separate a get-well card from Wallis Simpson to Edward the Confessor, stirred in his milky, murky DNA. Handbags were the future. Though tiaras may falter and ostrich feathers droop, women would need handbags as fervently as they needed soft calf leather to caress their dancing feet.
All of which might well supply another few reasons to be cheerful. Until yesterday, at any Dimmable LED Down Light K1109 - 3x1x1W / 3x1x3W rate. Yesterday and the great handbag auction. There I was, swaddled as usual in my dawn ensemble of diamante-studded moleskin and Earl Grey teabags when an offensively perky voice on GMTV announced that Mrs Thatcher had supplied a handbag to be auctioned on-line, in aid of a breast cancer charity. Oh, what jolly japes ensued about the semantic delights of being "hand-bagged". Photographs of famously "hand-bagged" former colleagues of the baroness were flashed on screen. A dictionary extract was read, confirming the official linguistic acceptance of the phrase.
And then came the picture. A black calf Ferragamo bag with gilt chain strap, and upturned-omega clasp. About 12 inches by eight. And I should know. I carried one identical to it on Saturday night. Two whole days before I was to discover that it was destined to be flashed across the computer screens of the world as the quintessential Mrs Thatcher handbag.
Could it have been this demure little piece which thumped several chancellors into Euro-submission? LED Light Bulb SP50-3W Could this small parcel of polished leather have assisted in the punishment of Cecil Parkinson? (answers on a postcard please, with diagrams, usual address). Naturally, I dashed into the bedroom, where the bag still languished on the dresser with that weary air of post-weekend discarded merriment. Its contents, I felt sure, must match its newly-awarded political importance. A couple of secret documents? A print-out from a Swiss bank account?
The bag and I should surely be destined for great things. Even if its present contents were just a little disappointing. To be precise: one L'Oreal mascara, one sheet of Anadin
embroidered patches Extra (empty), a calling card from a Portuguese wine merchant, six tissues, a ballpoint pen from the Meridien hotel in Phuket, and an atomiser of Guerlain's Vol de Nuit.
The very stuff of political power? I think not. But never mind. A much more ambitious plan is forming in my fevered brain. A picture of this singularly significant handbag is now available to millions of internet users. I, er, happen to have just such a handbag. The amount of therapy I now require to recover from the shock that Margaret Thatcher and I have identical taste in handbags would surely justify, shall we say, a re-sale of said item. A chip off the original cross, if you know what I mean.
And a cross we've all had to bear. Please send really huge bids, in sealed envelopes, and I guarantee that the world's deadliest handbag can be yours before I've split my next infinitive.
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