A letter from a reader

At 67, my sister held up my handbag and said, Maggie, you cannot take the shopping bag to a wedding

My grandson has had to show me how to put this somewhere people can read it, because left to myself I would never have written a word. I am not a writer, and I have always believed that what another woman chooses to wear is entirely her own affair.

But three different women asked me about a little bag at my nephew's wedding on Saturday, every one of them in the queue for the ladies, and I have now explained it enough times that it seemed easier to write it down properly.

It started three weeks ago. My sister June came round to help me decide what to wear to her son Daniel's wedding. We had got as far as the navy dress, the one that has been to every wedding, christening and retirement do I have been to in years, and my good earrings. Then she picked my handbag up off the bedroom chair, the black one that goes to the doctor's and the supermarket and everywhere in between, held it up by one handle, and said it.

Maggie, you cannot take the shopping bag to a wedding.

I laughed, and then I looked at it properly. Scuffed at the corners, a receipt poking out of the side, the shape of my purse pressed into the front of it. It had been to the last six weddings I had been to, and I had not once given it a thought. Which, I suppose, was rather the point.

I did not choose that, and I want to be clear about it. Nobody decides to stop sparkling. It happens quietly, one sensible occasion at a time, until your own sister is standing in your bedroom holding your handbag up like evidence.

How it happens

Somewhere around sixty I made a rule without ever once saying it out loud. Sparkle was for younger women. At our age a bit of shine was mutton dressed as lamb, and I would sooner be invisible than be that.

And the shops are very happy to agree with you. Go and look at what they sell as occasion bags for women our age. Black, navy, taupe. Stiff little boxes with a stiff little handle, all of it described as classic or timeless, which we all know by now is a polite way of saying nobody thought about you very hard.

The other sort, the pretty sort, is all cold silver and diamanté and looks like it is off to a hen party. So you pick between the two, and you pick the black one, and you take it to every wedding for the rest of your life.

And at every one of those weddings you are the woman with a glass in one hand, a plate in the other, and a handbag with nowhere to go, so it lives under your chair all evening and you keep one foot on it in case.

What I had wrong

I had it in my head that there were only ever two choices. Sparkle, and look as though you were trying to be thirty again. Or sensible, and fade quietly into the flower arrangements.

It turns out that was never the choice. It is not sparkle itself that looks wrong on a woman our age. It is the wrong sort of sparkle, cold and silver and everywhere at once. A little of it, in warm colours, worked into something with a bit of craft to it, reads completely differently.

It reads as a decision. And the easiest place to start, I have found, is the smallest thing you carry. Nobody is going to call a little clutch mutton dressed as lamb. They are just going to ask you where you got it.

The bag is called the Midnightbloom

It is from Manchester Boutique, a small British boutique that has been quietly dressing women our age for a few years now.

The bag is called the Midnightbloom. It is a little envelope clutch in a deep evening blue, with autumn leaves and flowers worked across the front in amber, burgundy and pink sequins, and a few embroidered flowers in between. It comes with a fine gold chain that you can clip on or leave off. They do thirteen designs altogether, which I will come back to.

It is slim and lightweight, with a flap that simply folds over the front. My phone goes in, a lipstick, a folded tissue and a ten pound note for the raffle, and that is the lot. I was worried that would not be enough. It is exactly enough.

And the colours are the thing. They are autumn colours, the colours of the leaves on the lane in October, not the silver glitter of a teenager's party. It catches the light when you move and sits quietly when you do not.

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

What happened at Daniel's wedding

Daniel and Hannah were married on Saturday at a country hotel outside Buxton, with the trees just starting to turn along the drive. I wore the navy dress, exactly as planned. The only thing that had changed was the bag, worn across me on its chain.

Three women asked me about it, and all three of them in the queue for the ladies, which I gather is where women actually talk at weddings. The bride's aunt. A young woman from Hannah's work, who took a photograph of it. And my cousin Irene, who has not passed comment on a single thing I have worn in fifty years, looked me up and down and said, well, somebody has come to enjoy herself.

I have decided to take that as a compliment.

What I noticed more than the compliments, though, was my hands. For the first time at a wedding I had one for my glass and one for my plate at the buffet, and nothing under the chair to keep a foot on. When the band started I was up by nine o'clock with the bag still across me, and I did not think about it once.

On Sunday morning June rang to ask whether I was still alive, and whether she could borrow it. That is the rarest sort of bag. The one you can carry in your hand to a wedding, or wear across you to a Christmas do and dance with both hands free, and feel right either way.

Three things I have learned since

One. Small is the point. A big bag at a do is one more thing to look after. This one is flat and light enough that you forget it is there, and it only holds what you actually need, which I found oddly freeing.

Two. A little sparkle reads as intended. One small bright thing with a plain outfit looks like a choice. My navy dress had been to six weddings and nobody had ever mentioned it. On Saturday it looked as though I had planned the whole outfit around the bag.

Three. It goes both ways. Clipped on its chain and worn across you, it is a party bag you can dance in. Unclipped and carried in the hand, it is a proper little clutch for a dinner or the theatre. I have used it both ways already.

About the price

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

The Midnightbloom is £35.95. It was £72.00.

My first thought, honestly, was that there had to be a catch, because you can walk into any department store and pay more than that for one of the stiff black occasion bags I have spent years carrying about.

There is no catch that I have found. They are a small boutique selling directly, so there is no department store taking a cut in the middle, and they have a sale on to make room as the first autumn stock comes through.

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. Real people, mixed opinions, mostly very good.

Then I ordered the Sunsetbloom for June, the peachy one with the rust red flowers, because she was never going to give mine back.

What I would tell you if we were friends

If you and I were sat in the garden with a pot of tea and you asked me, this is what I would say.

If you have a wedding, a dinner or a Christmas do coming up, and you already know exactly which sensible black bag is going with you, then it is worth ten minutes of your evening to go and look at these.

Not because a bag will change your life. It will not. But there is something in catching a bit of light when you move, at our age, in a room full of people, that I had quietly given up on. I would rather you did not give up on it too.

Two practical things. The sale is on at the moment, and with thirteen designs to choose from, do not do what I did and dither for a week. And the first autumn stock tends to be gone before the Christmas dos have even been booked.

The shopping bag stayed at home. It has not been to a do since.

Maggie