There are many different kinds of love; lust fuelled passion… love at first sight… enduring love that only grows and deepens over time. And then there is that very special type of love, that incorporates all these and more.
Dear readers, I am very lucky to be able to say I have found this love. And on 26 December 2012, in the hallowed halls of Harvey Nichols, our union was sanctified, and my beloved and I became one. In case you hadn’t guessed, I’m talking about a handbag. This handbag in fact:
It was immediate, as soon as I caught sight of Rocco, swinging from the arm of one Cheryl Cole, I knew he was the one. However, that was 2009, and I was pregnant and busy spending all our money on Isabella Oliver, a Bugaboo travel system and a Barbadian babymoon.
However, from then on, Rocco was never far from my thoughts. I won’t lie, other bags did come between us; Mulberry(s), Marc, Anya and Louis, my head was turned by all of them, but their charms faded, and I kept coming back to Rocco.
So in December 2012, I made a decision; no more dalliance with the unsuitable. It was time. It was sale time.
But the course of true love never did run smooth, and obstacles stood in our way. First, a transport strike was planned on Boxing Day. No matter, I’d get up at 7am, take the 3 buses required to get from my home to Selfridges, snare my Rocco and be home by lunchtime. Christmas Day came and went and I fell asleep that night, dreaming of what would be.
Then, when the alarm sounded early on the 26th, one thing quickly became apparent. I was not very well. At all. Some bastard had come in the night and fitted a spiked iron band around my chest. But would I give up that easily? Faint heart never won fair handbag. Wheezing, I donned a bobble hat and thick coat and set off on my epic journey.
Three buses and a copy of In Style later I was limping down Regent Street, a woman possessed. I arrived at the accessories hall, plastic at the ready, to find… Nothing, nada, zilch. Not a Rocco-shaped sausage. They weren’t on sale.
At this point, I’m not ashamed to tell you, I seriously considered admitting defeat. Then, inspiration struck. I whipped out my iPhone and loaded up the Net-a-Porter sale. But again, the hope swelling in my heart subsided like a deflated puffer fish as it became apparent Rocco was not on sale there either.
I had one more shot at this: Knightsbridge. I found myself hailing a taxi as the thought of another bus was just too overwhelmingly grim, and 10 minutes later I was handing over a King’s ransom to a taxi driver with scant social skills and stepping out onto Brompton Road. Once more, I found myself beating a path to the accessories hall. Where I found…3 Roccos. But they were bright red. And I hate red handbags. Sob. That was it, it was not meant to be. My love would remain unrequited forever more. I turned to haul my sorry arse home on the bus.
And then… There he was, shyly peeping up at me from a bottom shelf. Beautiful velvety grey leather with gunmetal hardware. If I’d had a knife in my back I wouldn’t have moved faster – that bad boy was swinging from my hand in a Harvey Nichols bag before you could say ‘Visa’. And we all lived happily ever after, although I was diagnosed with pneumonia the very next day. Totally worth it.
Happy Valentine’s Day!