I have a bit of a history with handbags. By history, I mean love affair. It started with my Grandmother, she loved them, and loved that I did too. She would buy me books about the history of clutches, hand stitch beaded beauties for me to take to school balls and gift me Victorian age purses from her personal costume collection at Christmas.
Unfortunately, I haven’t managed to surround myself with as many treasured tokens, rich with culture, as she did. But everything I have to hold my endless supply of half used lip gloss and chewed pens is still ever so loved. On a trip I took to Europe a while ago I saved up all my pennies and snagged a Mulberry (yes, a real life Bayswater). Before that budget busting investment I was hauling around a rather over sized vintage Kate Spade number I dug out at the recycle boutique. On my current rotation is a rather gorgeous studded backpack style Saben piece.
One day my collection will rival my Grandmothers (and probably include large chunks of hers).
So when I fall for a bag, its a serious (take home to meet the parents) thing. I have not only fallen in love with a bag here, but an entire collection, an entire brand. The only thing that will make this wind beaten Monday morning worth getting out of my footsie pajamas is Mr Mini Robin (in cobalt – of course), by the breath taking Deadly Ponies.