The olive green number was robust. It never complained when I staggered in from some serious Sydney midsummer shopping, temperature in the 30s (Celsius) and crammed my prized new black lapin (OK - rabbit) fur coat into its depths. It would swallow up classy little angora twinsets, saucy mini-skirts, suede pumps, blond wigs. When my shopping companion and I sat on the suitcase, forcing it down into its usual compact self, it humbly obliged.
In the mid-1970s I was fortunate to visit the US on a State Department grant. My suitcase yielded Kiwi souvenirs and swallowed up trinkets as I wove my way through the country visiting newspapers and journalism schools. It didn't even complain when I strapped on the latest traveller's aid - detachable wheels - the wrong way round.
It saw me through my honeymoon and then retreated to the top of the wardrobe as I dealt with the responsibilities of parenthood and greatly diminished travel funds.
When our lads were aged 9 and 11 we decided to take them on the magical journey to Disneyland. The Spouse's vinyl valise and my expandable suitcase were replaced by some more fashionable black zippered suitcases. A bargain at the price. Unfortunately they lasted only as far as Los Angeles.
I have a theory that airport baggage handlers suffer from intense bouts of luggage envy. Luggage equals holidaymakers travelling to nice places to take their leisure. The baggage handlers, bound to terra firma, take out their frustrations on these symbols of perceived affluence.
The handles were wrenched off our new luggage somewhere twixt check-in and collection. I ended up having to buy large zippered soft luggage at a mall somewhere in LA and some housemaid was no doubt surprised to find new but useless suitcases under the bed in an Anaheim hotel room.
The soft roll bags served the sons well as they travelled up and down the country on school sports trips and on family holidays farther afield.
