There’s a clip I love from the 1970s of Jane Birkin emptying the contents of her handbag. Today, if you watch a Vogue ‘What’s In My Bag’, you will see celebrities pick out a Gucci purse, a spare pair of Jimmy Choos, and the keys to their Benz. It’s perfectly manicured, and ingratiatingly performative. What I love about Jane’s bag is that it was beautifully lived in; a flurry of notes, lipsticks and cigarettes spilled out of a leather bag which looked like it had survived girls’ bathroom trips, a sticky pub carpet, the sweaty underground, and a battering by the English rain. That’s what most of our bags are like: messy, but a micro museum, a compendium of lovely little receipts of who we are. Nothing you need, but everything you want.

“Most of our bags are messy, but a micro museum, a compendium of lovely little receipts of who we are”

I love watching ‘What’s In My Bag’ videos. Like makeup tutorials, hauls, apartment tours, GRWMs, or vlogs, they formed most of the cultural consumption of my years as a teenage girl. I think historians of the future will be a bit baffled trying to understand why, at the turn of the 2000s, there has been such a proliferation of obsessive self-introspection, with content creators building whole careers on analysing the minutiae of their material lives. My theory is that, like what people wear or how they speak, what we lug around in our bag says a lot about who we are. Humans are super nosy and we like to compare ourselves to others. None of us really know what we’re doing. We want to know if we’re wearing the ‘right’ shoes, carrying the ‘right’ essentials in our bag and, fundamentally, if we are managing our daily lives ‘right’.

So, that was a long way of saying “please excuse the chaos of my bag”. I am a ‘just in case’ person in all respects, which is why my bag is permanently overflowing. I thought it would be a fun, and very revealing, exercise to empty my bag and take stock of what I carry around (and don’t carry around) to survive life at uni.

The Michaelmas Survival Kit

Three packs of ibuprofen, hand sanitiser, a used packet of paracetamol and a mountain of tissues immediately caught my attention. Despite going into second year, I’ve not yet shaken the curse of interminable freshers’ flu. I have essentially become a walking medicine cabinet now the autumn weather has set in. Speaking of which, I was chuckled to see both sunglasses and a heavy duty umbrella at the bottom of my bag. Both, I would say, are critical to survive the trials of an English autumn.

A planner: the best weapon to prevent a Michaelmas meltdown. I use a paper one, mainly because I like to write lots of ‘to do’ lists (which always start with things I’ve already done). When the heap of reading lists and essays seems insurmountable, the simple act of ticking things off gives me just enough dopamine to bring myself back from the brink of a degree crisis (seriously, you should try it).

“Everyone has their non-negotiables ... mine is carrying at least four lip glosses, just in case”

Cambridge Basics

Laptop, a single pen, Camcard. That’ll do. Occasionally, I decide to go rustique and take notes by hand. Then I uncover this plethora of indecipherable, unfiled, and coffee stained pages stuffed in the corner of my bag, and remember why it’s a bad idea. To those soldiers who always do their lecture notes on paper, I bow down to you. It will simply never be me.

Everyone has their non-negotiables. Mine is carrying at least four lip glosses, just in case. Once, I arrived tired and hungover at a supervision and, reaching for my laptop, found that my bag was empty aside from a whopping six lip products and a wine bottle opener. When I had to recall a week’s worth of reading from memory, I really learnt my lesson. Still, I like to think it shows I have my priorities in order.

I carry a red purse which I stole from my mum, which is stuffed full of receipts, and my greatest asset in this bag: my loyalty card collection. My purse serves one main purpose; to hold cash for nail appointments.

Treasures and Trinkets

Lucky crystals, essential oils, cheeky notes from friends and feminist literature; if it would put me on trial for witchcraft in the 17th century, it’s going in my bag. Some of this miscellaneous paraphernalia has been clogging it up for years. A plain black TK Maxx special; I bought this bag when I was twelve, but it has seen me through every era of secondary school, sixth form, and now university. It is definitely on its last legs; the straps are fraying at the edges, the leather has lost its shine and the zip is broken. But I have the curse of being a sentimental, nostalgic hoarder; I will not be getting rid of this bag, or any of its eclectic contents, anytime soon.