A letter from a reader

At 67, my sister watched me tip my whole handbag out on the kitchen table, just to find my glasses

You should picture me writing this at the kitchen table with a pot of tea going cold beside me, because that is exactly how slowly it has come. I am not a writer, and what another woman chooses to carry on her arm has never been any of my business.

But three different women asked me about my handbag during one Thursday morning shop, two of them stood behind me in the checkout queue, and I have now explained it enough times that it seemed easier to write it all down properly.

It started with my sister June, at this same table. My phone was ringing somewhere inside my old bag, and instead of answering it I did what I always did. I turned the whole thing upside down. Purse, keys, a rain hood, two pens that did not work, a boiled sweet from goodness knows when, and eventually, underneath all of it, my glasses. June watched the entire performance and then she said it.

Maggie, you have been carrying the same black hole for twenty years.

I laughed, and then I looked at the pile on the table, and she was right. Not the same bag, mind. There had been plenty of bags. But every one of them was the same idea. One enormous cave with a zip on top, where everything I owned went in and nothing came out without a search party.

I did not choose to carry a black hole. That is the part I want to be clear about. Nobody decides that. It happens quietly, one sensible purchase at a time, until one day your sister is watching you shake a boiled sweet out of a bag at your own kitchen table.

How it happens

When I actually went looking for a better bag, I understood how I had ended up with the old one.

The shops give you two choices. There are the great big shoppers, which are practical in the way a bin bag is practical, everything goes in and good luck to you. And there are the small smart ones, which look lovely and hold a lipstick and one folded tissue.

Smart or useful. That was the whole high street. Nobody seemed to think a woman might want a bag that looks like a decision and still gives her phone somewhere to live.

And once that is all there is, you stop expecting anything else. You buy the big black one because it is sensible. You carry it. You dig in it at every till in Cheshire, and you assume that is simply what handbags are.

What I had wrong

Here is the bit I got most wrong, and I suspect I am not alone.

I thought my problem was space. Every time a bag drove me mad, I bought a bigger one, and the bigger one was worse.

It turns out it was never about the size.

It is about whether things have a place. A phone pocket you can find without looking. A spot for the purse. A spot for the keys. The moment everything has its own home, a middling-sized bag holds your whole life in better order than the enormous one ever did, and you stop carrying half a pound of things you forgot were in there.

It took me until 67, and a tipped-out bag on the kitchen table, to work that out.

The bag is called the Alina

It is from Manchester Boutique, a small British boutique that has been quietly dressing women our age for a few years now. June found them, which she reminds me of regularly.

The bag is called the Alina. A caramel-coloured crossbody with a gently curved top, neat squared stitching across the front, and a small kangaroo charm in the metalwork that I have grown unreasonably fond of. It comes in black as well, which I will come back to.

The front has a zipped pocket that sits exactly where your hand falls, and that is where my phone now lives. Inside there are proper separate places rather than one big cave, so the purse stands where the purse stands and the keys clip into the same corner every time. It is structured enough to hold its shape and still light enough that I forget I have it on.

That is really all there is to it. It is not complicated. It is just a bag that somebody thought about.

What happened at the checkout

The first proper outing was the Thursday shop, of all the glamorous places.

Three women asked me about it before I got back to the car. The lady behind me in the queue started it, because I had my purse out and paid before the woman in front had finished packing, and she said she had watched me do it without digging once.

The third was Pauline, who I used to work with and who has never once commented on anything I carry in all the years I have known her. She looked at it and said it was far too smart for a Thursday shop. I have decided to take that as a compliment.

What I noticed more than the compliments, though, was that I forgot about it. It sat crossbody, out of the way of the trolley, and both my hands were free the whole way round. I did not hitch it back up my shoulder once, which I had not realised I had been doing with every bag for years until I stopped.

The next morning I put it straight back on to take the labrador across the field. Phone in the front pocket, ball thrower in my hand, no black hole banging against my hip. Completely myself.

Three things I have learned since

One. Everything having a place changes more than you expect. It is not just the till. It is answering the phone before it rings out, and finding your glasses in the same pocket you left them in. Small thing. Changes the whole day.

Two. Crossbody was the answer all along. Both hands free, nothing sliding off your shoulder, and the strap adjusts so it sits where you want it rather than where it lands. I do not know why I waited this long.

Three. It goes both ways. It was smart enough for lunch with June at the garden centre and ordinary enough for the field the next morning, and it looked right in both places. The caramel goes with practically everything I own.

About the price

I want to be straightforward about this, because it was the thing that made me suspicious.

The Alina is £29.95. It was £60.00.

My first thought, honestly, was that there had to be a catch, because you can walk into any department store and pay double that for a bag that is one big cave with a designer name on it.

There is no catch that I have found. They are a small boutique selling directly, so there is no middleman taking a cut, and they have a sale on at the moment to make room for the autumn stock coming in.

I did what I imagine you are doing now and went and read the reviews before I ordered. Just over three hundred of them, sitting at 4.2 stars. Not the suspiciously perfect five you see on some websites, which if I am honest made me trust it rather more. One woman from Tenterden had written, “I have stopped losing my keys. My phone finally has its own pocket and the colour goes with everything I own.” That was the one that decided it for me.

Then I ordered the black one as well, which June says was ridiculous. She has already borrowed it once.

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were sat in the garden with the teapot between us and you asked me, this is what I would say.

If you have spent years carrying a bag that swallows your glasses and your keys the moment you actually need them, not because you like it but because that seemed to be all there was, then it is worth ten minutes of your evening to go and look.

Not because a handbag will change your life. It will not. But there is something in getting to the till with your purse already in your hand that I had quietly given up on, and I would rather you did not give up on it too.

Two practical things. The sale is on at the moment, and the first autumn stock is already going. And it is the caramel that goes first, which I found out because June had to wait a week for hers.

I have not tipped a bag out on the kitchen table since.

Maggie