Obsessions and Recessions: The Handbag

‘I’m not a rich girl’.

That’s a statement I make based on the fact that I can’t *yet* afford a Mulberry handbag, and the fact that I probably never will be able to afford a Chanel clutch. When I waltz past boutique windows my mood soars and swoops in a kind of cruel arabesque: first, I see the new Del Rey and I’m like ‘oooh look how pretty…’ and, then, I catch the reflection of my tattered old Fiorelli and I’m all sad and smug at the same time. Thing is, to me a £60 bag that I got for £54 (thank you, student discount) is both reassuringly expensive and a bloody good steal. It might not be the pristine, off white-rose, goatskin specimin sitting pretty on the other side of the glass, but it is a thing of style and substance. Tan leather with a few character-building scratches and a gold medallion zip, my Fiorelli runs rings around the dainty Del Rey: it goes with winter boots and summer sandles, jodpurs, jeans, and maxi dresses. What’s more, I’m not frightened of it. Give me a posh bag and it’ll either stay in its protection pouch or get ruined on a dog walk; give me a sturdy, mid-price satchel and I’ll chuck it on the grass and wipe it down with some Cif and a sponge.

I’m not a rich girl. Even if I was, I probably still couldn’t justify spending that much money on what is basically an oversized lipstick pouch. Probably…



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