Handbag

I see the same woman on the train every morning. Her hair is greying, cut in a style, I suspect, she has worn since the 1980's, a 'Lady Diana' it used to be called. She doesn't wear make-up. Her clothes are plain; navy or black jacket and a series of inoffensive, pastel-coloured tops. I can't see the bottom half of her as she sits in her train seat, but I expect her shoes are sensible and her skirts fall below the knee. She often wears a garish brooch - a bright gold and diamanté affair with a cat sitting in a crescent moon. It is kitsch, vulgar even.

The woman's pale eyes are kind. Sometimes she reads a book. Other times, she listens to an old-fashioned CD Walkman and stares out of the window. But her handbag is always on her lap. The handbag is extraordinary; a black leather confection of shiny buckles and leather tassels almost entirely covered in metal studs. It looks so out of place on her lap, a beacon of dark, fetishistic style. I wonder if it was a present, or if she bought it herself, and if she did, what thought process, what desire led her to choose that bag. Is it her totem, is it her truth, is it her aspiration? Nothing in her impassive face offers any clue, but every morning, I wonder.