A handbag?

This Christmas, I spent some time with a bunch of old bags in Amsterdam. Handbags, I hasten to add, before my Dutch family and friends take offence. And purses.
I’m referring of course to the Museum of Bags. (And Purses.)
Located in a stunning house on the Herengracht, an überswank canal, the museum is the result of a 30-year obsession of one Hendrikje Ivo, collector and accessory fetishist. I suppose once you hit 3000 bags, a walk-in wardrobe just won’t cut it any more.
Despite our initial misgivings and mirth (mandatory photos outside, lips puckered, underneath the ‘Bags and Purses’ lettering), the museum turned out to be a perfectly-proportioned treat. Not nearly as camp and frivolous as feared (or hoped), it presented a fascinating slice of history from the 16th Century to present; an oblique glimpse into the lives of our ancestors. It is amazing what the contents of a handbag can tell you about the society of the time. The objects women carry with them make such eloquent statements about their status and role: from the pendulous keys, scissors and thimbles on chatelaines hanging over full-hooped skirts, to belle époque fans and dance cards; from art deco powder compacts and lipsticks, to the phones and credit-cards of today.
The bags themselves are fashioned from every conceivable material, including glomesh, which reminded me of the purse Mum had which seemed dazzlingly, impossibly glamorous for 1970s Sydney. If you still have it, Mum, maybe you should wrap it in acid-free tissue paper. Or pop it on Ebay. It’s a museum piece, don’t you know.