When I was a scruffy little goth type teen I cared not jot for handbags. I scoffed at them, them and high heely lady type shoes.
Then I hit my mid twenties, maybe, and both started drawing me strangely. Til I would stand at shop windows, staring, staring.
Strange, isn't it?
The lure of the external womb. But pretty, like, with colours and pockets, and ideally, if you're me, little dogs hanging off them, not mucous and blood and such.
The best thing about a new bag is taking all your things out of it, and putting them into the new one. A pure and simple joy.
This post was inspired by Darren's confusion on spotting a man on the Dart with a sparkly pink handbag, full of his own stuff, no girlfriend in sight.
I want this man to just like his pink handbag, and for his fellow passengers to be unphased, unnoticing, toting their own. The era of the manbag should really have fully dawned by now. Surely it's time?
Perhaps we could start off small, with a testicular coin purse, and work up from there.
