I've just realised, I've done it again.
I went out in my lunch break a couple of weeks ago and, browsing around one of the lovely local accessories shops which thrive in this prosperous small town, I spotted an outrageous hot pink handbag, perfect for summer, I thought, and particularly perfect for Speech Day, a very smart affair held in the local church, with drinks afterwards on the lawn, followed by a barbecue lunch
I had my outfit planned weeks in advance; a black wrap dress with a cream pattern traced delicately over it, a boxy black linen jacket, black high heeled shoes and pale pink jewellery. The bag would certainly finish things off with a flourish. We single mums have to keep our ends up in coupledom.
I'm sorry to say that I didn't go. I found out a couple of days before that my son's year, being on study leave, were not expected to attend. I suppose I could have gone on my own, but that seemed a bit sad. And I had had an exhausting few weeks and was at a pretty low ebb.
Still, I'm sure it will come in useful for something else. The drinks party I'm going to on Sunday, perhaps? I really must stop buying pink bags. The buying of one seems to spell social disaster for me.