A Designer Horcrux

Which girl, provided she has already satisfied all primary concerns (food, water, shelter etc.) doesn’t dream of a clothing collection on the scale of, say, Blair Waldorf or Carrie Bradshaw? And within those ladies’ swoon-inducing wardrobes, which does not contain their essential Louis Vuitton Neverfull (or equivalent – Chanel 2.55, Céline Luggage, Fendi Baguette… The list goes on) in which they tote the latest issue of Vogue, make-up, Blackberry, Smythson diary and discreetly packed sanitary products and prophylactics? In other words, a girl’s bag is never simply a practical object; a mere container. It’s like the greatest personal assistant you could imagine, an ever-present silent character in a girl’s life that knows you and your habits so reliably that it is impossible to live without. It’s your best friend, a scandalous lover, your secret accomplice.

And yet, when pitted against a lowly Primark pleather atrocity, a girl’s preference to the latest overdraft-busting Prada Saffiano tote still yields the inevitable questions from parents, boyfriends and most unfortunately, jealous friends. Do they not serve an equal purpose? No, alas, the answer delves much deeper than the mere fabric from which our bags are made.

The bags we carry are a sign of status, and a great bag is a marker of fashion kudos and respect. “Respect for what?” I hear all you doubters cry. And here’s the ugly truth, ladies: respect for yourself. Was J.K. Rowling right about Horcruxes, the vessels Voldemort chose as meaningful objects in his life in which to keep fragments of his soul? Is the designer handbag a modern-day woman’s equivalent to a Horcrux – a lifeless object which we (unknowingly) perfuse with the very essence of ourselves? And, having chosen as our vessel a bag whose assault on our Visa/Mastercard bill is somewhere on par with a Cruciatus curse, have we not sold a fragment of our soul to the fashion industry?

Deprived of the logo-embossed leather handbag, do we lose some sense of ourselves? If so, something’s going wrong. I realised my demise when, strolling down the fashionable Boulevard de la Croisette in Cannes, rather than checking out some bronzed Adonis sunning himself on his yacht, I found myself eyeing up the arm-candy the most stylish women of Cannes were toting. The thought of the fabulously assured way one woman carried herself would never leave me until I might be able to buy that kind of fabulosity in the form of her gorgeous vintage Louis Vuitton Epi Saint Jacques. And the fashion merry-go-round turns around again. And it will carry on turning for all you fashion freaks like me, unless we set ourselves a drastic (but affordable) quota, for we must not let our plastic/leather/pleather ‘frenemies’ eat away at what remains of our fashion-infested souls.

Maybe remind me again of this resolution the next time Phoebe Philo creates another drool-worthy Cèline tote. At least my soul will have somewhere pretty to live…