Travels with an Over-Independent Suitcase

For the last few days, I've been in Dublin visiting my parents. My dad took a job there, so they've rented this fancy apartment in the south of the city and as I was dying to get out of London for a bit, I invited myself to stay. About a week before I went, my dad offered to send me money to get a cabin-sized bag, so I wouldn't have to check a bag and then wait around at baggage claim. 'No thanks', I said, 'I'll borrow one'. This is how I ended up going away with a suitcase that is quite possibly possessed by Satan.

This suitcase is very well-traveled. Last week, it went to Frankfurt with my friend R, to whom it actually belongs. The week before that, it went to Amsterdam with our mutual friend C. And of course, it has just returned from Dublin. I think all this globe-trotting has given it ideas above its station. It does not realise that it is a mere receptical for clothing and suchlike. It has become something of a prima donna.

The suitcase does not like corners, and is apt to swing out in unexpected directions. The suitcase does not like bumpy floors or lumpy pavements. The suitcase does not appreciate being jolted over kerbs, and will attempt to hurl itself into the path of the Dublin air coach in protest at such rough treatment. The suitcase goes where it wants to, oblivious to the fact that its handler is desperatley trying to stop it scattering toddlers as it hurtles merrily around Heathrow Terminal 1. The suitcase very definitely does not like the street that I live on, and attacked my left leg mercilessly all the way along to illustrate this point.

I'm going away to Siena next month. I'm buying my own cabin bag.

Once Upon a Time

About nine months after I got my publishing job and moved to London, I went to a party where I met a man who I thought was perfect. I tore my lovely new life to bits in order to be with him, as there were some quite severe obstacles in the way. I was deleriously happy (with him - the rest of my life was going haywire) for oooh...six months (I know, I know, not long). Then, out of the blue, he tells me I'm too difficult and grumpy and stressed for him to be with, and that it's over.

It's now five months after that and I'm living in a new flat with an old friend. It's Saturday morning, and I'm signing onto Facebook, and there it is. My ex (who we will be calling The Capitalist, given his penchant for accumulating things - stocks, shares, and very expensive bottles of wine) is going out with a girl who he claimed was 'just a colleague' when we were together. This would suggest that all the things he said about how difficult I'd become were just so much rubbish; really, I was being left for an easier option.

This morning, I felt like I could let out a breath I'd been holding for months. A weight had been lifted off my chest. Perhaps the greatest heartbreak I'd ever had (and I've had a fair few) had come and gone, and I'd survived. More than that, it wasn't my fault it happened. If I can get through that, then I can do anything. I'm kind of excited to find out what that's going to look like.