You were my first ever briefcase. In fact you were my last ever briefcase, which means we have a special bond. You were given to me just before the start of a new school year, in a new school. Moving from Lenham County primary school to Swadelands, the large secondary modern was an intimidating event, even though the two schools were side by side. Perhaps they thought you would at least make me appear confident and self-assured. In the way that only a 12 year girl carrying a briefcase could appear.

Over the summer holidays, my school uniform started coming together. The new white shirts in the cellophane packaging, the folds kept in place with long pins, the stiff plastic holding the shape of the collar. The regulation Swadelands red and black school tie, the grey skirt, the knee high wihite socks and the chunky lace-up shoes. And you. You were the largest of all the briefcases we saw in the store. Perhaps not the most attractive or trim but your roomy capacity outclassed them all. I can?t pretend that you were my first choice. I wanted an executive briefcase, one with the snappy gold colored locks that you could flip up, just like on TV when the bad guy would try to tempt the good guy by revealing a briefcase full of neatly stacked 50 pound notes.

But you won me over with your hinged wide opening, and your generous three-sectioned gusseted construction. Most important though was your three digit combination lock flap. I always kept your number safe in my head and was happy to take those few seconds to lock and unlock you at the start and finish of each class.

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When I started out in PR, one of the first things I was told was the importance of the handshake. Well that plus the importance of not bad-mouthing a client until you leave the building. Unfortunately, a lesson in hindsight. Handshakes were very important for a girl they said — a firm and confident grasp with 2-3 good pumps would always please. Men especially.

So I shook my way through ten years of schmoozy parties, meet and greets, interviews and business trips. Shaking was strictly a 9-5pm activity, or in my case a 9-10pm activity, if you allow for pub time. No-one I know in England shakes hands socially, when we meet people (usually in the pub) we nod our head slightly, make fleeting eye contact and go ‘alright. Then there’s a period of social adjustment as the person tries to slip into the conversation without drawing too much attention to themselves. This always worked fine for me, until I moved here.

Being introduced to an American is a full-on sensory experience.

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What did you think about when you pulled into the Humane Society parking lot late that night with your dog. Your dog with the matted coat and open wounds on her back and face. Your dog wearing the choke chain collar on a long leash that in her distress she wound around the ground lamp so tight that she was found standing less than a foot from the hot lamp. Your dog that was found barking for attention, dehydrated and likely bewildered by its circumstances. Your dog that doubtless remained loyal to you right up to the point you walked away. Did you just tire of her or didn?t she win the fights for you anymore? Did you pride yourself on your last generous act of bringing her to the Humane Society rather than dumping her. Did you tell yourself that it really wasn?t any different disposing of her there that night rather than waiting for the shelter to open. Well guess what. The Humane Society only takes owner-surrendered dogs. All the others go to the City shelter, where they either make the adoption program or has 5 days to find a new home. Your dog didn’t make the adoption list. Still, at least you don’t have to think about her anymore.

I first had a cigarette when I was about 12. It wasn?t a life-changing event. I didn?t throw up or become immediately hooked, I neither loved nor hated it.

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