I promise to lay aside my Chanel bag-owning aspirations during this time of financial crisis. I am not, I repeat NOT, deranged and unpleasant. (oh my god! is that the latest denim blue Chloé...). Just kidding.
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http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/caitlin_moran/article5008574.ece
From The Times
You can't make a silk purse out of a peasant's bag
The handbag I would like most is a big, hollowed-out potato with handles; in times of crisis I could bake and eat it
Should I buy a £600 handbag? “What are you talking about?” many of you might ask. “What on Earth are you saying? Do you know that there's a recession on? Do you know that old people are having to throw their trusted companion-cat, Mr Whiskles, on the fire, just to keep warm? Didn't you see the It's Fun To Eat Worms! supplement in The Guardian? Should you buy a £600 handbag? What kind of obscene question is that? You're deranged and unpleasant.”
To which I say: “I know all that. I know. But Grazia magazine doesn't. Tell Grazia. It's Grazia that told me I should have a £600 handbag, that it would be a style investment. Tell Grazia!”
Of course, it isn't just Grazia that's making me think that I need a £600 handbag. I am not a simpleton. I am not so easily led. It's the Woman supplement of The Observer, too. Before I began reading these periodicals, my stance on “investment handbags” was that if I were going to make a £600 investment, it would probably be in post office bonds, not something that, by and large, lives on the floor in pubs, or which I sometimes use to carry 5lb of potatoes. But in the past year I've begun reading women's fashion magazines and am aware that I am in a handbag minority. Normal women, says Grazia, do not buy one handbag every five years for £45 from Topshop; normal women have dozens of handbags: small ones, potato-less ones, £600 investment ones such as a Mulberry tote. With mounting alarm, I learnt that having a £600 handbag is like having a crush on The Joker in Batman. It is an irreducible fact of being a woman.
The October edition of Observer Woman, however, brought matters to a head. Lorraine Candy, Elle's editor-in-chief, tried to go a week with just high street gear. On the Wednesday she writes: “I've failed. Today, I know that I cannot brave that front row with its cool bags and sexy ankle boots without the one thing that makes my outfit work: my new Chloé bag. I feel ashamed.”
I had a flush of horror: no one has ever passed judgment on my cheap handbag to my face. But then, this is a reserved country. I don't know how they would react to my £45 handbag somewhere more demonstrative - Portugal, say, or Texas. They might leap on to their chairs screaming “MAH GAHD!”, trying to hit my cheap handbag with a broom, as if it were vermin.
That night I made a decision. One of the modern wisdoms of womanhood is that eBay has fake designer handbags that you can't tell from the real thing. But despite typing in “great fake £600 handbags for £100” into the “Search” field, nothing came up. In despair I was driven to look for £600 handbags for £600. Vuitton, Prada, Chloé; £300, £467, £582. God, they were horrible. Like Guernica, in ponyskin. I tried to find one I liked. I really did. Tanned, tasselled and oddly shapeless, many resembled Tom Jones's knackers, with handles. Others were covered in straps, buckles and brasses, like some S&M horse. There was a whole shelf of leather clutches with gigantic gold clasps that looked a bit as if someone melted Grace Jones in 1988, leaving behind only her blouson leather jacket and huge earrings.
On page 14 of my Search Results I finally saw one I liked, by Marc Jacobs. It was bright, acid-house yellow, with a picture of Debbie Harry. But my joy in finding a £600 bag I liked was mitigated when, on closer inspection, it proved to be a canvas tote, for £17; basically, the only designer item I was attracted to was a Marc Jacobs carrier bag. I was thrown into existential despair.
I am not wholly unfashionable. I have learnt some things about style over the years. A bright-yellow shoe is surprisingly versatile, patterned tights are never a good idea. And if - through chaos, fate and backed-up laundry - you end up in an outfit of alarming randomness (socks, Crocs, tuxedo jacket and tricorn hat), you just look people in the eye and say, with crocodilian self-assurance: “I don't like to be too matchy-matchy.” But if I cannot connect with the finer things in life, if £600 handbags fundamentally revolt me, this must prove that I am a peasant. If I really were of noble blood, left by mistake on my parents' council house doorstep (as I still, albeit fadingly, believe), I would, surely, have an affinity with these things. It would be like the princess and the pea. I'd probably get a rash if I used a handbag worth less than £500. Every time my eye is unstoppably drawn to some bright red thing in “pleather” for £45, it's further confirmation that I am resolutely of the underclass.
If I'm honest, the handbag I would probably like most is a big, hollowed-out potato with handles on it. Then, in times of crisis, I could bake and eat the handbag and survive the winter. That is the way of my people. And yet, despite all this, my handbag-psychology denial rumbled on. Yes, those £600 handbags might be visually unappealing, I thought to myself. But maybe if you touch them, they have some manner of £600 magic that makes it all worthwhile.
“They will all be made of butter-soft leather,” I told myself, not really knowing what that meant. “You can always tell the difference close up. People who come near me and feel the bag will know my true nature.” I went to Liberty and walked around, touching the handbags, waiting for the enchantment to overwhelm me. They all just felt like handbags. I did, however, see a silvery purse that I liked. For £225.
“I am classy after all!” I thought, running to the till, incurring a £40 overdraft fine and a rumbling schism in my marriage. “Maybe I have a secret uncle who's an earl! True breeding will out! Finally I crave expensive designer items! I'm normal! Thank you, Grazia!”
Five days later the silver purse was pickpocketed on Gower Street. It turns out that thieves read Grazia, too. They can spot expensive accessories from 500 yards away. It also turns out that husbands do not read Grazia, and no matter how magnificent or loving they may be, they can't help themselves from sporadically saying “£225! For a purse!”, as if you've just deflated the Moon and put it in the bin. Again.
I've gone back to my £17 purse and £45 handbag. I know my place in the handbag class system. My name is Caitlin Moran, and I am an accessories peasant.
