Work Text:
Somehow, her handbag managed to be more capacious than what was in the realms of plausibility; an inelegant, boxy, practical thing that was a low-grade weapon in it's own right when the spirit of an army soldier possessed her, which was inexplicably whenever she walked, and caused her to punctuate every step with a sharp, co-ordinated, side-to-side swing of the arms. Many a person had fallen victim to this contraption. But what was even more unbelievable was the fact that - no matter how capacious it was - it never seemed to be enough.
Rapidly, blessed space would be swallowed up by clunky clutter, eaten away effortlessly and leaving no time to savour the fact that there was any of it in the first place. It was an infestation. In the blink of an eye, the handbag's interior would become a stifling, suffocating, heavy darkness of clumsily-strewn paraphernalia that absolutely stank of incredibly concentrated and cloying perfume. Vanity clung to the lining like a strangler fig due to the sheer volume of portable mirrors and powdery make-up and body mist and fine-tooth combs that she was always obsessively using to preen herself. Whenever she was done parading it around outside, it would be dumped in her room or dumped next to her favourite dining room chair. Her daughter avoided it like the plague and regarded it with a resentment that ultimately shouldn't make sense for an inanimate object but absolutely did for this one.