Folks, like a lot of smart, well-educated, confident and cool looking fellas, I cart my stuff around in a shoulder bag.
My wife calls it a handbag, but like Doctor’s appointments, requests to fix the bathroom door and discussions about our relationship, I simply ignore her.
For many years, all I needed was two pockets, one for a wallet, the other for my car keys. Then I got a phone. I had room in my shorts for it, but not the reading glasses I needed to use the thing.
Frankly, I don’t have the many hands of Vishnu to cart everything around, and even if I did, every time I put something down I tend to forget it or lose it.
This wasn’t a problem for my grandfather, chiefly because mobile phones weren’t invented back in his day, plus men of his generation wore long trousers with deep pockets along with shirts and jackets also littered with numerous pockets.
He had ample room for his wallet, notebook and pencil, cigarettes, lighter, box of matches, a copy of Best Bets, reading glasses, hip flask and two fists full of spare change to scatter about for his grandchildren to squabble over.
If he needed to carry anything else, it went into his briefcase, along with his back-up hip flask, lighter, matches, glasses, address book and playing cards.
My father didn’t go in for long trousers and sports jackets, he preferred to wear shorts and polo shirts. Now, while he had the same amount of stuff to carry as dear ol’ granddad he found an ingenious method for keeping it all together: he got Mum to carry everything in her handbag.
Dad’s system worked, although Mum still walks with a permanent list. My own wife doesn’t like to be seen anywhere near me in public, so I’ve had to resort to carrying my own handbag; I mean satchel.
These days more modern men are carrying shoulder bags. Like me they’ve got everything they need, and more, in one handy-sized, snazzy carry-all.
I’d be seriously lost without mine; it’s got my compass in it.