.:: Aone handbags ::.

BY the time you read this I’ll have retrieved my Christmas handbag from the top of the wardrobe and transferred all the essentials into it; purse, mobile phone, to-do list, keys, lipstick and at least a dozen pens. The first of December is the date I admit to starting thinking about Christmas; in reality it has been in the planning stage for months..

By August we knew dad and Sally were coming to stay, by the middle of November the back of the shopping had been broken, and already I’m planning puddings.

But the grand unveiling of the Christmas handbag, like the first playing of Chris Rea’s “Driving home for Christmas”, is my annual declaration that we’ve reached 24 days to C-Day. There is no stopping me now.

I love Christmas and I love my Christmas handbag – it’s a fairly roomy over-the-shoulder number with a kitsch 1950s style festive family gathering on the side. The highlights of this twee little image are picked out in sequins and beading – mother’s pearl earrings, the trim round father’s tweed waistcoat, and the decorations on the tree all twinkle and glisten as I battle through town on important festive missions. And if it wasn’t enough that my bag brings cheer to its owner, I’ve noticed that it raises a smile almost everywhere I go. Or was that a smirk? Smile or smirk, I care not a jot. I love my Christmas bag. My heart saddens a little when, every 6th January I have to return it to the top of the wardrobe. But then I remember the tiny joys my other handbags bring – who knows, this year I might even get a new one? Actually, this year I know exactly what will be under the tree – a new watch. It’s my own fault, the sort of thing I’d have yelled at the kids for – I put my dressing gown through the washing machine with my watch still in the pocket. It might have survived my usual eco-friendly 40 degrees, but this time I’d opted for the boil wash in an effort to remove red hair dye from the collar. So my watch is no more. The glass is cracked, the strap a curled apology of its former leather glory, and the hands forever stopped at 5.25am..

Mr Marr gave me the sad news; he had, bless him, seen there was a washing on and gone to hang it up. I’m relieved my stupidity was exposed in that way; had I discovered the truth myself I’d have been tempted to hide the evidence. Right now I’d have been furtively trawling eBay, looking for an exact replica with which to fool my husband. You see my sad broken watch was a Christmas present from him a few years ago..

That was not the first time he’d given me a watch – the first one was a lovely wooden watch. That one, I lost. I had tried to convince him that I was just choosing not to wear it, but eventually the truth came out. And now I??ve wrecked its replacement too.

Careless is just not the word. Whether I deserve or can be trusted with another watch is a moot point – another seasonal handbag might indeed be safer..

But whatever Santa brings this year, the notice on the washing machine is there to stay. “Check pockets”, it reads. Actually, I’m thinking it might be better to sew them all up.

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