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.
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| 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. |
