The Case of the Colossal Case

It began, as many domestic misadventures do, with optimism, deceit, and a completely unnecessary suitcase.

Mary, my otherwise entirely rational wife, had packed for a two-day trip to Cornwall as though preparing to outlast nuclear winter, international exile, or at the very least, a month-long spell on Bake Off. The suitcase — I hesitate to call it that, as it bore more in common with a grand piano in disguise — was wheeled to the front door with the dignified groan of something that knew it should not exist.

I stood beside it, holdall in hand, accompanied by my sister Lynne, who had packed light, practical, and without any detectable psychosis.

Mary, however, was undeterred.

“It’s only one suitcase,” she said.
“With its own gravity well,” I replied.

It did not fit in the car boot so much as occupy it.
My holdall wept softly beneath it.
Lynne’s bag simply vanished.

By the time we reached the hotel, the staff had taken to measuring the corridor widths and redistributing furniture to accommodate its progress. One small child asked if the “lady’s large box” contained a robot, a dog, or treasure. The answer, naturally, was fourteen tops, seven scarves, three pairs of boots, and a curling tong Mary has never once used in the twenty-eight years we’ve been married.

“You never know,” she said.
“I do,” I muttered. “That’s the problem.”

At one point, I’m fairly sure the suitcase asked to be referred to as “M’lady” and requested a bellhop and a chardonnay.

It now resides in our hotel room like a mute, brooding guest. I can’t prove it, but I’m almost certain it’s growing.
Lynne suggested we charge it council tax.

And we still don’t know what’s in the zipped compartment.