The carousel of life

Overheard in the baggage reclaim area of Malaga airport a few weeks ago: Him: Yew watch out fir it – it's your bleedin' bag.

Her: Don't be such an arsehole, Steven. Jus' keep an eye out fir me bag, will ye?"

Him: Keep an eye out fir it? Ye cudden miss it; size o' de poxy ting. Half a mind to lash a claim in against ye – me back is still fucked after carryin' it down de stairs o' yer ma's gaf."

Her: Ged a grip, wud ye? S'not dat heavy. An' what d'ye spect me te do? Wear de same few tings de hole time wer here, is dad it?

Him: Wer owney here fir a bleedin' week Mandy. We're not fucken emigratin'.

Her: I know wer not fuckin emigratin', ye tick. Now jus' give it a bleedin' rest, wud ye? Dere id is.

Him: Wear?

Her: Dere, ye fool! De one wit de stripes on it. Ged it, wud ye?

Him: Mandy. I'm warnin' ye. Relax de kax, alrite?

Steven reluctantly jostled through the crowd milling around the baggage carousel to retrieve his beloved's luggage. When I saw him struggling back to their trolley – which Mandy was keeping safe by sitting on it – I could see his point. Quite apart from being hard to miss, the bag in question was so big that it really should have been checked through at the oversized baggage desk. (As should Mandy, truth be told.) Steven dumped the bag unceremoniously on the trolley, flung his comparatively tiny Puma sports bag on top of it, and headed towards the arrivals hall, whilst Mandy, keen to look her best for the great unwashed in Torremolinos, wobbled along behind him, carefully retouching her mascara as she went.

Whatever about the tone of Mandy and Steven's exchange, the nature of it is something most men can identify with: why do women, both washed and unwashed, bring so much luggage on holidays with them? Fair enough, when you're 60 you could be excused for preparing for all eventualities and packing more than you know you're going to need, but young, carefree singletons off for a week of sunshine and relaxation should not be thinking along those lines. Or so I naively thought.

I was corrected on the issue a few years ago by a sultry brunette I was going out with named Colette. Both miserable with the winter weather here, we decided to sod off to Fuerteventura for a week. We flew out from Belfast, and as we were checking in, I couldn't help but notice the massive bag Colette had with her.

"Sure you've got everything?" I asked casually.

"I think so, yeah," she replied seriously, not getting what I was getting at.

"Right so. And how long are you staying for, exactly?"

"What? A week; same as you."

"Fair enough. Only it looks like you're planning on moving there, you know?" I suggested as the check-in attendant lugged the cumbersome bag towards her.

"How long were you single for before I was stupid enough to go out with you?" she asked calmly.

"A while. Why, what's that got to do with anything?"

"You should know that women always bring too much with them on holidays. It's like, universal."

"Right," I said slowly, as we headed for the departure gate. "So how many tops did you bring with you, for instance?"

"What kind of tops?" she said somewhat confusingly.

"What do you mean what do I mean 'what kind of tops'? Tops. As in clothing you wear on the upper half of your body, that's what I mean."

"Like, everything? Beachwear, daywear, evening wear?"

"God, if I'd known it was such a loaded question I wouldn't have bloody well asked you. Just give me a number."

"Eighteen."

I stopped dead in my tracks.

"Eighteen? As in three times six? We're going away for seven days and you've brought 18 articles of upper body clothing with you? What the…"

"Just to be sure. I don't want to be doing any laundry while we're away. How many did you bring?"

"Tops? Like, everything? Beachwear, daywear, evening wear?"

"You're hilarious. How many?"

"Five: three T-shirts and two shirts."

"Five. So there'll be an element of recycling there. Which means laundry. Which I won't have to do, because I have a choice. See?" Colette said smugly, amazed I couldn't see the logic of her strategy.

"Oh yeah, the grief of rinsing out a T-shirt and flinging it over a railing on the balcony. Get a grip."

And so we departed for what turned out to be a wonderful sunny week in Fuerteventura, my enjoyment of which was heightened immeasurably by the sight of Colette washing her "second favourite" top three days out of seven. Despite all her preparations, she had neglected to pack her absolute favourite top, which apparently "went with everything". So she had to suffice with the other one, washing it carefully in the bath, wringing it out, hanging it up to dry on a hanger so it didn't "lose its shape, [dummy]", and then sandwiching it between a towel and laying it on the ground underneath her two-ton suitcase to press it. Bless.