I have a rule about no cheap bags or shoes. And no fakes. When you have a problem with “stuff”, like I do, very quickly you can just have way, way, way too much. And then you have to confront the fact that you buy things because you are mental, and that’s not nice. There is enough evidence that I’m mental without it physically cluttering up the place, too.
So my rule is no cheap bags – nothing under £500 – and no cheap shoes – nothing much under £100. Then you don’t really buy anything because
your husband will notice you can’t afford it. And you make do with what you have, which is how it ought to be.
This doesn’t apply to clothes, because clothes have to fit and suit you, which cancels out quite a lot of them. But bags and shoes – fuck it! Who can’t fit into a bag? Or a shoe? What bag “doesn’t suit” you?
But today I made an exception for a Zara bag, which has been on my mind for 3 months. “I mustn’t buy it,” I kept saying, despite it being a) perfect, a Mansur Gavriel-ish bucket in in a Celine yellow and b) only £20 – NO-ONE SAY SWEAT SHOP!! – because of my no cheap bags rule.
But then I was in Zara – I just kind of came to in there, it happens a lot – and I saw a girl taking the bags down off the shelf and I said “What are you doing! What are you doing!” and she said “Oh, this is old stock, I’m just moving it to the back,” and I said “No wait wait I’ll just… take… this one….” and zoinked it out of her hand and bought it, panting.
I love my cheap bag so much. I love it with the kind of spleeny jolt that happens when one of my kids looks at me with their bright little beady, birdy eyes and no-one has been a little shit for about half an hour and they’re looking at me and then they smile and then wave and go “Hi mum.”
I love this bag that much. And for that kind of love, rules can be broken.