Handbags at Dawn

Today, while walking past the local Waitrose, furiously conducting an internal debate over this evening's dinner options (is spagbol twice in a week too much?), I glanced in the window to spot a familiar face. She was looking a tad bedraggled with a hint of disorganised madwoman about her, and she was carrying a rather limp looking nylon handbag of the LeSportsac variety. Then I realised it was me. It strikes me that I am a long way (geographically, mentally and most evidently, sartorially) from the Birkin-toting self of yore. My footwear is a rotating cycle of UGGs/FitFlops/Mukluks/trainers, a good three inches lower than the de rigeur uniform of towering heels, scaling the corporate ladder. (Rosa Klebb dagger was optional, but useful, in disposing of the opposition, especially during bonus season.) Recent years have seen my arm candy of choice reduced to the hideous LeSportsac (which doubles as a nappy bag) and a wipe-clean PVC Cath Kidston number. Suddenly I am pining for my 2.55 (a.k.a. Chanel, for the handbag heathens out there), notwithstanding the fear of a small child defacing a bag worth more than a small car. I practically run home, almost mowing down a couple of pensioners in the process, sprint up the stairs to the attic where, gathering dust, resides a box marked 'handbags'. Tearing it open, I discover they are nestled alongside two other long lost friends I haven't seen in far too long: freedom and independence. So I have vowed to sling on an impractical but beautiful bag and strap on some killer heels the next time I am not doing the nursery run, performing a supermarket sweep, or chasing children round a playground. As for my dear friends, freedom and independence, they have been lovingly laid back to rest in the attic for another few years.