Page 27 of Love from Pretty Beach

'Actually, let me show you one thing. Look at this.

It's a little emergency salt holder. I'm basically powered by salt and I got this little container once on a plane when I had the, well, you know. Anyway, now I take it everywhere. Because you never do know when you might be in need of some Maldon. I will also tell you this: sometimes I put Maldon on my tiramisu. I have already told you about my addiction to tiramisu, but sometimes it’s not easy to cart around with one. '

The pot was tiny, decorated with a little label that proclaimed the contents to be 'essential'.

Darby loved it because the contemplation with genuine horror of being caught somewhere without access to decent salt made her shudder.

She had experienced it often. 'I mean, obviously I haven't actually used it that many times.

' Darby admitted, turning the pot over in her palm.

'It's too special to use willy-nilly in a way.

Which completely defeats the point, but there we are.

I'm saving it for a proper emergency, though I'm not sure what constitutes a salt emergency that would justify breaking into the emergency supplies. Yes, I am strange.'

Dropping the pot back into the little bag and then popping the bag back into the main compartment of the basket, she began pulling things out of the bag.

Like some kind of excavation or archaeological dig, Darby continued to delve.

It made her both chuckle because of the funny side and want to cry as she realised her bag was just as upside down as her life.

'Right, let's see what else we've got in here.

Oh, a little foldable brush.' She held up a brush.

'I bought this about six months ago with the idea that I'd maintain good hair throughout the day.

Needless to say, I've never used it. I continue to carry it around, though just in case I find myself in a situation where I need to brush my hair.’ Laughing as she opened up the brush, Darby held it up to the camera.

The irony that most, if not all, of the time, her hair was in a messy bun right on the top of her head.

The brush belonged to the theoretical version of herself who thought about things like good hair and being moisturised.

The version who had meetings that ran late and needed to freshen up before evening engagements, rather than the reality of someone whose most exciting evening plan usually involved choosing between two different types of biscuit to have with her tea and who to watch on YouTube.

'I think I bought it during one of those phases where I convinced myself I was going to become incredibly professional and organised.

' Darby laughed as she examined the brush as if it might hold clues to her past optimism.

'You know, the sort of woman who keeps spare tights in her desk drawer and always has breath mints.

Clearly, that transformation is still a work in progress. '

Producing a handful of writing implements in various states of decay, Darby grimaced.

There was no way she was ever going to publish the video but it would give her a very good poke in the you know what to clear out her bag.

'Pens. I mean, really? Why? I don’t even use pens when I am out these days.

So many pens. Some work, some don't, some might work if you shake them long enough.

I'm like a pen magnet, except instead of attracting good pens, I seem to attract the dying ones that other people have abandoned. Oh, and yes, because of course I have a permanent Sharpie in here. I know where this is from. This is from when I had to write the names in the children’s clothes. '

Shaking her head at the motley collection of pens, Darby felt embarrassed.

There were promotional biros from businesses she'd never heard of, pencils worn down to stubs, and a marker that had given up the will to live sometime during the previous decade.

She continued to carry them all because throwing away a pen felt wasteful, even when the pen in question was clearly beyond redemption.

Next came out a foldable sun hat. 'This is for one of those times when you are suddenly in St Tropez and your delicate English skin needs shade.’ Darby flicked out the hat.

'Hmm. I haven’t been out of the country for years, but there are moments, you know?

Like, I always think if I ever went to somewhere like Sicily in the summer, which let's face it is about as likely as me becoming an astronaut, I can picture myself on some gorgeous bougainvillaea-surrounded terrace with big sunglasses and a glass of something chilled and alcoholic and it would just be perfect.

Of course, in reality, I'd probably be sitting in McDonald's sunburnt, but the fantasy is quite appealing. '

The holidaying on the continent on a nice boat fantasy was one of Darby’s ridiculous, persistent daydreams that bore no relationship to her actual life or abilities.

She'd never been boating, had no particular desire to learn, and possessed none of the equipment or attitude necessary for summer sports.

But the image persisted: herself as some sort of glamorous creature, on a mini-break, no less, all sophisticated European style and expensive sunglasses.

The fact that she couldn't even manage to walk across Pretty Beach without incident didn't seem to diminish the appeal of this particular delusion.

Darby held up a tube of cream. 'Cream for pain. Because apparently, when you get older, your joints ache, which is one of those things nobody tells you about ageing. Along with the way you find it harder to get up out of chairs and how you become genuinely excited about new kitchen appliances.'

Pulling out a small rectangular container, Darby pursed her lips and nodded.

‘Now here we have something. Look at this beautiful little thing. This is one of those sushi box thingies. It apparently helps the environment. Bento Box, is it? Yes, I think so. To be honest, though, I’ve never used the little compartments.

Oh dear, there’s a leftover chicken sandwich with, dare I say it, shock horror, white sliced bread from my work lunch yesterday.

I made it with pesto, which always makes everything taste more interesting than it has any right to.

I like to make sandwiches with leftovers, you know? '

Darby continued to delve but decided that she’d had enough and if she’d had enough if the video ever came to see the light of day, there was no doubt that anyone watching it would feel the same.

She pulled out two pairs of sunglasses, one hard sunglasses case and two soft ones.

‘Yes, I have many pairs of sunglasses in my bag.

You know why? I am addicted to sunglasses because I live by the sea and pretend that I am on holiday all the time.

They are just expensive props for a lifestyle I don't actually have.

But they make me feel like the sort of person who might jet off to Monaco at a moment's notice, even though I can barely afford to jet off to the Co-op most days. '

The holiday glasses represented everything she'd hoped her life might become: spontaneous, glamorous, full of adventures.

Instead, they'd spent most of their existence sitting in the small bag within the big bag, waiting for occasions that never materialised and adventures that remained firmly in the realm of imagination.

Darby continued to pull things out of her bag.

‘I can do you headaches, I have a bunch of keys from my old house.

Umm, that was five years ago, a phone charger that is a spare and has one of those dodgy cords.

And that's it. The complete contents of my handbag, which turns out to be a fairly accurate representation of my mental state.

A mixture of good intentions, abandoned projects, emergency supplies for emergencies that never happen, and random items that probably made sense at the time. '

Starting to begin the process of returning everything to its rightful place in the bag, she looked up at the camera.

'I think what you carry around with you says quite a lot about how you see yourself, or at least how you hope other people see you.

Yeah, so what does this say about me? I think a lot of this harks back to the me who had a job and three children and a home to run and the feeling as if I was always chasing my tail.

That I'm someone who's always preparing for a life that's slightly different from the one I'm actually living. '

'The funny thing is, I started carrying a big bag because I thought it would make me more organised.

If I had space for everything, I reasoned, then I'd always have what I needed.

But actually, it's just meant I carry around more things I don't need, and I still never have the thing I actually want when I want it. '

Settling the now repacked bag beside her, Darby pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a random hair tie she’d found in her bag.

'Maybe I need a smaller bag,' she said to the camera, though she could already hear the doubt in her own voice.

'Maybe if I could only carry the essential items.'

But even as she said it, she knew she wouldn't downsize.

The bag had become too much a part of her identity, too central to her sense of being prepared for whatever the world might throw at her.

It was a security blanket and portable home and archaeological record all rolled into one admittedly cumbersome package.

'Right then,' she said, checking that everything was properly zipped and secured.

'That's what's in my bag, which turns out to be pretty much everything that's in my head as well.

A mixture of practical items, optimistic purchases, sentimental objects, and random rubbish that I can't quite bring myself to throw away. '

'If you've made it to the end of this deeply engrossing exploration of my personal belongings, thank you for your patience. And if you're wondering whether your own bag contains similar evidence of hopes, dreams, and domestic failures, I can pretty much guarantee it does.'