Game On!

The suitcase, the silence, the exit plan

I have a new game to suggest. It’s called what would I pack if …

I usually play it with my first coffee of the day. That essential dose of caffeine I imbibe whilst reading the news. After I’ve finished each depressing article I open an imaginary suitcase and chuck in my treasures. The rules applied to this game can be flexible. What any player packs depends upon the length of their trip. Is it temporary or permanent? A rushed event because shit happens … or is it planed? There are three absolutes; you must pick a destination, no unaccompanied shipping containers are allowed, and it’s strictly one suitcase per person at check-in.

My own single and very over-weight suitcase will include my laptop, note books and the manuscript of my novel The House in Mile End (not yet published … should anyone in the literary world be interested). Next are the old photo albums of my kids, family and friends … pre Apple iPhone. In particular the crumbling book of black and whites I ‘borrowed’ from my mum. Loose picture corners and faded, stylish images of 1950s Westcliff-on-Sea.

From my museum closet an indulgent few pieces perhaps? The remnants of my years in fashion … the rustle of a Gautier slip dress that whispers of Paris work trips and sneaky photos of debut collections in Galleries Lafayette. An Ericson Beamon necklace … evocative of yellow taxis, NYC potholes, tea at the Plaza and dancing at Studio 54 … its exotic strands so heavily beaded that they pull uncomfortably on my neck. My cream wedding shoes? Worn just the once. And despite never having looked at them since they went on a top shelf only reachable via a tall ladder, can I live without the first red leather Start-Rite shoes my toddler daughter wore, or her brother’s navy ones? And what about the cards in celebration of their births, and the shiny ‘it’s a girl’ balloon that deflated over thirty decades ago.

I see great potential in my game for other escapees to play. For example, Rachel Reeves has many reasons to be making a fast exit from the cabinet. What, I wonder would she imagine for her suitcase? Perhaps Kier Starmer’s head, a pot of freshly sharpened pencils, a waterproof mascara and a new box of Kleenex tissues?

My suitcase game can also be played in the opposite direction, with players listing items not to be taken, such as their great aunt’s china, their goldfish, ten years worth of old bank statements. Or, for Rachel Reeves, her puffed up CV.

It must be cathartic to leave behind pairs of shoes that never really fitted, clothes that weren’t quite right, face creams that sadly failed their promise to de-age. The experience of decluttering will be brutal and heart rending. I’ll ponder over my late father’s broken watch. My fat Mont Blanc fountain pen, a present I love to hold, but have never acquired the knack of filling with ink. My kids art work? My vinyl record collection? My 1970s, carefully framed paper bag from the Post Office Tower gift shop?

I choose to believe that Macron is a fan. He recently packed his wheelie with Napoleon’s hat, a catch of British fish, a very sharp boat-busting penknife and a stolen silver teaspoon marked HRH Charles 111.

Whilst I play my mind churns with life’s important questions. Which of my jeans are the absolute favourites and how many is too many sweaters? This leaves me less time to fully absorb the daily news items written about Israel and antisemitism. Or the absurdities of the Labour Party. Less time to ponder the mass of hate directed at such a minimal number of Jews. 0.2% of the world’s population. Less time to wonder if that world has been hijacked by a cult. Is Nigel Farage a goodie or a baddie, is Jeremy Corbyn certifiably insane? Can dodging rockets in Tel Aviv be a preferable way of life to hearing inane chants about freeing Gaza? Here in London, where the silent majority will come to regret their silent acceptance of Islamist terror, I occupy myself by counting tee shirts instead of hate. A boring but harmless pastime that keeps me away from instagram where videos celebrate a revival of the nazi salute. Deeply offensive and yet bizarrely popular. To use an American expression … go figure.

I shall take my small and well used Collins dictionary. It cost three old shillings and sixpence, and has random crayon scribbles in daffodil yellow. A few pages are missing from the letter O. I’ll add my well thumbed recipe book, The Way To A Man’s Heart (for its patronising, misogynistic title … and the best chocolate cake) In will go my Pesach Haggadah, its cream pages tinted the deep pink of my husband’s wine. As was the pale lemon outfit I wore, fresh from its carrier bag, on that, our first married seder night … and yes we’re still together.

Little chance of Melania packing for Trump. He will have his butler pack the Luis Vuitton with super-sized St Tropez fake tanning lotion, his golf clubs, Putin’s secret phone number and Israel’s Iron Dome.

I’m fairly sure that Angela Rayner would like to stick a finger in the air to union bosses at Unite, scrape the Tory “scum” from her boot and slap all in a large Primark carrier bag, along with her well thumbed school copy of Macbeth. Also her heated hair straighteners, an ugly trouser suit, and a rousing recording of Labour’s favourite ditty; The Red Flag.

Tell me what would you pack?