Half way home I begin to notice a pleasant smell. It's like raisins or port. It gets stronger as I walk and I begin to wonder what the smell is and where it is coming from. It smells nice, like home.
Then the horrible truth hits me.
My bottle of damar varnish has opened in my bag and leaked its contents.
I claw out my iPod and it is okay. I wrench out my passport and wallet (passport is OK, the wallet is partially soaked, but the money and cards are okay) and put them in my back pack. I find the offending varnish bottle at the bottom and see that it is completely empty. I throw it to the side of a building hoping that it will smash but it does not. My hands are soaked with varnish and quickly beginning to dry, which is bad. My fingers are beginning to stick together; I must wash the varnish off quickly, but I am still a good distance from home. When I finally get there I fumble with the keys because my hands are stiff and stuck with varnish. I wash my hands with brush cleaner, then rub them with orange oil and wash them again. My pants are ruined from where my soaked bag has rubbed against me, as are all the contents that I did not rescue while I was out on the street. Nothing of too much importance, luckily: some tubes of lipstick, some coins, some scraps of paper. My camera has survived but the case is soaked with varnish. I place everything that is ruined into a large trash bag.
I should have stuck to $20 canvas messenger bags. God I'm so pissed. And I'm so sad. I loved that bag, even though I only had it for two damn months.