IN A HANDBAG?

IN A HANDBAG?

On Tuesday we went out for dinner and I sat across from my daughter.
She opened her bag, which had started to sag, and some items she started to sort.
I stared at the small handbag’s contents; the things it contained appeared legion.
How does it all fit? There’s a whole lot of kit. It enfolds an entire spatial region.
The first thing that appeared was a packet, which came out through the handle’s small loop.
I asked her its place and she told me straight-faced, its one just-in-case cuppa soup.
The next thing to appear was a razor that my daughter suddenly outed.
This, she told me, for her legs round the knee, I assumed she spontaneously sprouted.
At the next I peered hard and myopic, “an umbrella” I said with some feeling, of the sort which expands telescopic. In case of monsoons from the ceiling.
She’d solve problems of personal hygiene if faced with a large elephant
So, no big surprise, right in front of my eyes, she conjured a deodorant.
The bag was by now becoming quite limp, not much weight pulled down on its handles.
But she delved within, gave triumphant grin, and came out with an old pair of sandals.
Now, I’m just a man so I’m quizzical. How you girls defy laws that are physical.
Do your bags of the hand, work like Mobius’ band stuffed full of a girl’s pre-requisicals?

Self-explanatary. Posted here for cariad and ColinClout. Happy memories?