Confessions of a HANDBAG ADDICT

Whoever said all things in moderation couldn't possibly have been referring to these essentials, says Rachel Ogden

One of my greatest regrets in life is that I owned a really nice handbag before I was mature enough to appreciate it. It was an Armani number: finished in cream sateen with two small handles at the top and studs on the bottom. This glorious handbag should have been seen hanging off the arm of a yummy mummy, but the only thing hung-over was me, a struggling student with a taste for Hooch and vodka.

The bag had been bought for me by someone who was vying for my affections. Sadly, neither he nor the bag managed to penetrate my heart. The handbag was impractical and became battered in the way you might expect: spilled on, ungraciously dumped on the floor and stuffed with all my everyday essentials.

When I finally decided that I needed something more useful, I gave it away to a friend who had been coveting it from the moment I began to carry it around. It was only fair – she had watched over the handbag as I mistreated it. Even in its lacklustre state, her eyes lit up like Gollum when I handed it over, and she scuttled off with her ‘precious’.

As regrets go, I admit, this may not be a big one to some. And it’s not every night that I wake up racked with guilt as to how I treated that poor handbag. But then, these are probably people to whom a handbag is just a bag. A utility to carry things around in. To a handbag lover, it is sacrilege. With this act, I had proven myself no more worthy of a really nice handbag than a grocery store carrier bag.