This is an Aesop's Fable kind of post...or Heckety's Fable more like...
Clown Daughter Numera Una (see I can do agreements when I choose) bought a nice big black smart handbag a few weeks ago. You know, the sort you can never find when you're looking, but which is just essential to the working woman's accessory fit-out, and the mother's, and the quilter's, etc...
On Monday I was handed same bag with handles dangling loose, the attaching loops not torn out of the top of the bag, but ripped apart and torn through ...
'Mom d'you think you could fix this?'
Remember the old 'Jim'll Fix It' TV show? or if you are too young, the more recent 'Bob the Builder' song- 'can he fix it? yes he can!' ...You may call me JimBob...I've sewed it together so well that I figure its probably the straps will break next as there's no way my stitching will give way!
But, and herein lies the moral of the story...I asked Eldest how on earth she had managed to break the bag in the first place? She hummed and hawed for a bit and then finally admitted that she had used it to carry all her tools and electrical supplies back to Players after a show in another venue.
Right. That, of course, is what handbags are meant for.
Moral? Render unto handbags that which therein belongs, and render unto a TOOLBOX that which THEREIN belongs.
Clown Daughter Extraordinaire!
So I guess that my next project will be to design and make an over the shoulder Tool Bag, suitable for Eldest to lug around Dublin....Why couldn't she be a secretary or something harmless, why a Theatrical Light Designer and blinkin' Electrician, for Pete's sake?