An Englishman in New England

Dear Samsonite

When I was 7 years old, my parents somehow managed to afford to send me to a posh public school, complete with formal uniforms, teachers who demanded that we call them "Sir" or "Miss", a 'Refectory' (dining hall) that served 'Luncheon', and ritualistic classroom canings for the sexual delight of the staff. Just kidding, I didn't really call it a Refectory.

This was a big deal to my parents, who wanted only the best for their little tike, so they took it all very seriously. A couple weeks before I was due to begin classes there, the school sent my parents a list of recommended materials that I should have. It was the usual, a ruler, a calculator, a protractor, colouring pencils. A quick glance didn't reveal anything too damaging to my reputation, which at 7 years old, was all I had, apart from a bucket of Lego bricks and a fascination with Ninja Turtles.

It all went pear-shaped when I was presented with a briefcase on my first day by my Dad. I hesitated for a second - A briefcase? Did I just skip school and inadvertently become a CEO? These and many other questions abounded as I packed my books in this, this thing, and lugged it into the waiting car.

Now this was no ordinary briefcase. It was a grey Samsonite case, made of quite possibly the most indestructible plastic known to man. I concluded this after several concerted months of dragging, throwing, stomping, and generally vicious abuse at the hands of a relentlessly-teased, and desperately uncool 7 year-old. Seriously, I would grab the handle with two hands, whirl myself around like an olympic hammer thrower, and send this case flying into the nearest brick wall I could find. I would watch incredulously as this case flew through the air and demolished a small row of houses, coming to rest on the pile of rubble. I imagined it sitting there smiling at me as if to say "Is that all you got?".

Not only did this case utterly frustrate my attempts to get a Nike sports bag, like all the other cool kids (whose parents obviously didn't give a shit about my school's suggestions), it gave me the worst calluses on my hands, because it was so damn heavy, and the handle had these little grooves in it that seemed to have no other purpose than to sink into the sweaty folds of my hand-flesh and erode it away with every movement I made.

I was bound to this case for 4 years, Samsonite, and not a day went by that I did not try to remove it from existence. It was a worthy foe, ultimately trumped by jamming a paperclip into the metal clasps that held it shut, and blaming the kid with ADD in my class for doing it. And so I conclude:

Me 1, Samsonite 0

Bring it!

The Englishman