About thirty years ago, although it was probably longer - you know how these things work, I went on my first business trip to France.

After a couple of hours trying to parle Francais but all the while sounding like Rene in the TV series, Allo' Allo', I was asked if I'd like to go out to lunch. This of course really meant he fancied some foie gras, uncooked mince and crème brûlée, all washed down with a fancy wine, all at our expense.

As we got up to go, he lifted, what decades later would be referred to by Joey in "Friends" as a "Man Bag", a slight that has, at least in our family and most of Scotland, remained.

Stifling a giggle, I headed out to lunch with yer man.

However, as time has gone by and more and more parts of me seem to be failing, including my waist line and memory, it has become increasingly difficult to get my wallet, specs, phone, earbuds, lip wax, face mask, sun specs, inhaler etc... in my pockets. Equally, Anne has tired of playing Sherpa, lugging all this crap around, dispensing on-demand as needs dictate.

Consequently, and to the the glee and embarrassment of our kids, and indeed some of our friends, I'm now the proud owner of a genuine, faux leather "man bag".

In France and indeed many European countries this is not at all unusual. However, despite the failed attempts of a North American TV sitcom to popularise the fashion, in Scotland, especially after Brexit, such things are deemed, well, just no right.

Casting my eyes around Edinburgh airport where we await our return flight to Cape Town after a granny run home to renew our visas, it seems that I'm still leading the fashion drive singlehanded. There's a few of the "working class" getting away with it carrying laptop bags. A few have gone down the Indiana Jones route but most bag carriers are using rufty tufty backpacks.

Nonetheless, my man bag is practical and, as I've said, I no longer have the pocket capacity to offer a viable alternative and therefore, where I go, my man-bag goes.

Top tip. Best leave the man bag at home when you go to mix with the tattoo'd, wife beater and leather-vest wearing crowd that was the AC/DC cover band gig we went to last Sunday, Craig trying to distance himself from me at the bar and steadfastly refusing to join me on the dance floor to dance around my bag.