Susan Morrison: Spare pants are clearly essential

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Those who know me will know I am terminally disorganised. The simple act of leaving the house takes an age as I attempt to marshal keys, phone, purse, bag, jacket and shoes, not to mention exact change for the bus.

Me being me, I complicate things even further by packing things that “might come in handy”. Things like antiseptic wipes, paper hankies, tweezers and rain ponchos with “Belhaven Best” on the front.

There’s a variety of pens. It’s why I like meetings in posh hotels. They have good pens. How disappointed was I, however, when none of the half dozen pens I swept into my bag from a certain deluxe city centre establishment worked. Not one. Last time I pilfer from a five-star hotel, I can tell you.

For a time I had a bottle of smelling salts, on the off chance that someone might faint. There’s a sewing kit with “Present from Dorset” on it, which is a bit of a mystery, since I’ve never been to Dorset and, anyway, I’ve lost the needle.

Until recently there was a small torch from the National Mining Museum, which I told myself would be useful in the event of an emergency under Glasgow because the tube had failed, thus necessitating a walk to the nearest station. Light would be required to stop us taking the wrong turning. This completely overlooks the fact that you could not get lost in the Glasgow Underground, on account of there being only one line.

Somewhere in the bag there is 
usually a bit of paper to remind me where I should be going and who I should be meeting.

This usually has the time of the meeting on it, too, and that time is nearly always about an hour closer than I thought it was, necessitating a crazed dash and scramble for a taxi.

Enough, I decided. Time to invest in one of those super smart organised bags with enough slots, pockets and zips to qualify as the lead singer in a punk rock band, circa 1975.

At last. Organisation is within my grasp.

As if. All that happens now is that I spend at least an hour a day scrambling though endless pockets looking for purse, keys, hankies, change, umbrella and that vital bit of paper.

Yesterday I lost the plot completely and just started to dump the contents of the bag on the seat of the bus.

Not even I can remember why I packed a neatly folded pair of floral patterned knickers into a zip-locked clear plastic bag. Neither can anyone else on the bus.

It’s mistletoe and whine time again

The Fringe is the bridge between summer and autumn. When it begins, it’s still light at 9, and then suddenly, by the end, you realise it’s dark.

In distant corners of John Lewis you can spot tinsel, that Japanese knotweed of the retail world. Left unchecked it runs amok, and by December the whole shop is choked with the stuff.

Hints of festive appear in your e-mail.

Am I organising the office Christmas party, asked No, I’m not. Well, technically I suppose I am, on account of the fact that it’s just me, so I guess if I take it into my head to don the glad rags and a paper hat to go sit in a city centre hostelry, drink Godzilla’s body weight in Chardonnay, then hit the dance floor doing The Birdy Dance then, yes, I am.

I’m beginning to think I should organise a Nae Mates office do for those such as me who work solo. Who’s up for that? Let’s make it a posh hotel. We might be able to nick some pens.

Getting back to normal ain’t easy

It’s OK, you can come out now, they’ve gone. All the mimes, actors, artists, dancers and most of the comedians. We’ve got the place to ourselves again.

Now that the Fringe is finished, it’s nice to rediscover the place. You can sit just about anywhere on the bus, no-one seems to be trying to find the Castle and you can walk along the High Street in a fairly straight line.

You have to watch out, though. It’s a shock to find the lanyard no longer holds its power. I may have mentioned this before, but the wearers of lanyards are impervious to the thrusters of flyers.

One glimpse of a flyer and I would swing my lanyard forward like Van Helsing taking down The Brides of Dracula. Just like vampires, flyerers fall back hissing and muttering “sorry, mate”.

However, on the stroke of midnight on the last day of the Fringe, this super power deserts us. If you get jumped by chuggers on Princes Street, flashing the badge does no good whatsoever.

I just looked like a mad old woman swinging a photograph on a string whilst stolen pens fell out of my over-stuffed bag.