And yet it happened this morning. I was about to drive off to Waitrose, to get my last bit of shopping before my departure for Scotland. Then Jackie next door wanted to ask me something. Then I thought of something else that I needed to do before leaving home, and I went indoors, putting my bag down. Then I got into my car and drove away. I reached Burgess Hill, parked, paid for an hour's parking from the small stock of coins in the car, and looked for my bag, which ought to have been on the passenger seat, with the strap looped over the headrest (to stop it lurching off the seat, if I had to brake suddenly).
No bag.
For a heartbeat I was terrified, imagining my bag lying in the road somewhere, or in a thief's hands, its contents being rifled without respect. Then I realised that it must still be at home. But even this didn't bring relief. I felt totally naked without my phone, without ID, without money. And horribly doubtful of myself, that I could have done this. Was it a sign of dementia?
Very, very carefully I got into Fiona and drove all the way home again. Almost all the way I felt incredibly exposed to mishaps and accidental misfortunes. It was only when turning into my road that I felt better. And only when I saw my bag where I'd put it down did I recover my poise and stop feeling full of fear.
Just think how it might have been if, when well on my way north, and already far from home, I discovered that I'd left my bag behind? I'd have to return home - all that way, caravan in tow - and start again. I would be so tired by the time I'd finally arrive at Stamford, my first stop. A dreadful start to my holiday. And all the time, I'd be wondering what such a mistake indicated, whether it was a brain-weakness that would soon manifest itself in other ways more dangerous to myself (and who knows, to others too).
I shouldn't think that I will make any such mistake again, or at least not for a long time, a sharp lesson having been learned.
But I'm finding it really hard to understand. This is the bag in question. It's the teal-coloured one in luxury leather that I bought from Pittards' factory shop in Yeovil almost a year ago:
I loved it from the start, and it has superseded every other bag that I still have. And why shouldn't it? It's small but handy, high-quality, and the colour and style go with most of my clothes and most occasions I'm likely to find myself in. Readers will have noticed it often in my pictures, whether those in my blog posts, or those on my Flickr pages.
So often it's me, my car, and my bag - all I need. As in that shot above of myself at New Radnor last October. Always, if I go out at all, even for a walk around the village to get some exercise, then I take this bag - and therefore its vital contents as well.
And then this morning. A distraction, followed by a sudden notion to do something before driving away, and I forgot all about my bag and what was in it. Worrying!
Do you ever do this? And react the same way? Is there something about modern life that has made me (and perhaps you too) prone to immediate panic if suddenly bereft of money, ways to prove who I am, and my do-it-all communication device? Why the fear?
Thank goodness I didn't go out without my keys! Then I would have been truly lost.
