I'VE seen several articles recently extolling the virtues of handbags, saying that they're now the number one 'must have' accessory. So what's new? They always have been. Admittedly the main point of these articles was that more and more women are now lusting after the sort of bags they see celebrities (god, I hate that word) carrying and many are willing to pay ridiculous prices for the latest in designer totes. There are even waiting lists for some bags, apparently. Women have to put their name down and wait patiently until it is their turn to part with huge sums of money for the latest leather and metal frippery. And I'm talking thousands here, not your £29.99 down at Marks and Sparks. It's not that I don't like designer bags, I do. But I wouldn't part with £3,000 for one of them, even if I could afford to. Other people do, and if they can't afford to buy them they can rent them or 'borrow' posh handbags. It's an idea which started in the United States, where else, but it has spread to Europe. Starting around £20 a month you can actually rent a handbag, pretend it's yours and then change it after a few months. Hopefully you will have cleaned it out when you return it, if your bag interiors are like mine anyway. Then there are fake designer handbags, of which there are millions. The real designers are not surprisingly peeved by having their favourite lines ripped off. Never mind that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. They are always going on about how you are supporting organised crime if you buy a fake bag. And this from people who charge £2,500 for a bit of leather and a buckle! However, the articles set me thinking about handbags. That they are one of the only truly feminine items left. Everything else has gone unisex, but bags are women only. Oh, I know there have been sterling efforts to get men to carry handbags, and some do, but most don't. I remember a male colleague who sported a sturdy dark brown leather satchel about the size of an average woman's bag, with a shoulder strap. He was always telling everyone how marvellous it was, how handy, how he could carry everything he needed in it, how masculine it was. Another rather taciturn colleague, listening to this for the umpteenth time, said quietly: 'Methinks he protests too much.' After he'd gone you could be sure at least one man would say that he wouldn't be seen dead carrying a handbag, he'd never be able to show his face in the pub again. No, a handbag is a woman's thing and it's a sacred object. Now let me hand out some advice. Mainly to husbands, soon to be husbands or partners, sons or any male in the vicinity. Never, ever, go in a woman's handbag without permission and even then be very careful to dip in, take out what you've asked if you can take out, and then retreat hastily. OK, there might be some girls out there who don't mind, but most of us do if we catch you delving into the depths of our own private space. For instance, with necessary security at airports and ports, we have to put our bags through x-ray machines and sometimes they, and us, are searched. Personally I'm quite happy to be searched by a burly woman with a moustache, although I might prefer a burly man with a moustache, than have anyone go through my handbag. It doesn't happen very often but when it does there's nothing you can do but grin and bear it. I once had a very pleasant elderly man who chatted happily away as he assaulted every item in my bag, right down to my change purse and my address book and he even opened lipsticks and inexpertly wound them up and down again. He was obviously following a book of 'how to search a woman's bag' rules and was being very nice but nevertheless I wanted to punch him. You can't, of course, because they might not let you on the plane if you do. My children learnt at an early age that mother's handbag was a no go area because there was a nasty monster in there waiting to gobble them up (joking). I, in turn, wouldn't dream of entering my daughters' bags. Even if they say I can. I prefer to take the bag to them and let them delve. To a woman, a bag is more than a status symbol. Lose your man, and you're vaguely aware that something familiar isn't hanging off your arm. Lose your bag and you are bereft. Look, for instance, at Margaret Thatcher. She knew her bags, did that woman, she was never seen in public without one. There was always something vaguely sinister about the way she carried it. As if she wouldn't hesitate to swipe someone around the ear in a cabinet meeting if they didn't agree with her. And for all we know, she probably did. Her bag was essential to her image, whatever she had in it. So what do we carry in our bags? Well, totally useful things. Like, er, make-up, mirrors, keys, phone, address book, cigarettes, lighters, manicure sets, up to date lists of things to do, lists of things we should have done, notebook, pens, digital camera, purse, smaller purse, tool kit. Tool kit? Well, it's only small, it came out of a posh cracker and is useful for, well, something, sometimes. Bags are also receptacles for for lost and found items. For years I've rescued items and dropped them into my bag. Spot a small screw on the floor, pop it in your bag in case it's important (it rarely is). Keys, receipts, invitations, one earring, important school invitations that children never hand over. Only when you realise your bag weighs several kilos and it takes ten minutes to find your car keys do you have a mucking out session. The older you get the more there is in your bag. You see young girls with dinky little bags, not big enough to carry more than a lipstick. But they soon learn.

The garden is full of hungry birds at the moment, bewildered by the extra cold weather and lack of new buds to peck. There were a couple of dozen on the lawn this morning, and for the cats it's like Charlie and the Chocolate Factory all over again. You can almost hear them. 'Oh look, I think I'll have that nice little robin for an hors' d'ouvre followed by one of the plump blackbirds for the main course. Or I might go for a couple of blue tits and then a sparrow or two for afters.' We've been making fat balls, or actually fat pudding basins, full of nuts and seeds and dripping, and in order to keep the birds safe wedging them on top of the beech hedge, which is deep and thick and impenetrable. Not that the cats don't try, the ginger one actually got stuck between two forked branches last week and after uttering plaintiff cries had to be rescued. The birds do seem to have a look out though, who shouts 'watch out chaps, grey moggie at two o- clock, lift off NOW.' So far we've been successful, with only one fatality and that was because a blackbird flew into one of the windows. That didn't stop one of the cats dragging it indoors pretending it was the first kill of the season.