Reasons why I never want to own a designer handbag

In six months time, I turn 25 - a full quarter of a century, and, when I was 16, the age by which I thought I'd have a mortgage and a bun in the perfect middle class aga (please contain your laughter until the end). As I've aged, matured and concluded that only the very privileged or determined/slightly insane can score all of these life points this at such a young age, my proposed milestones have become comparitively smaller - doing laundry before I run out of clean tights, actually saving a little money each month instead of spending it on gin and lipstick - and until recently, owning a fancy shiny bag with a big tacky logo on the front. 

A designer handbag often seems like the finishing touch on your mental picture of your adult self: a symbol of success, status and style, and for most of my life I've thought a Mulberry was all that stood between me and becoming Alexa Chung. Then I started thinking about the realities of spending more than a few notes on something I take with me everywhere, and these are all the reasons why it's not a good idea:

I eat almost constantly
I don't know if I've mentioned this a hundred billion times before, but I freaking love food. I love buying food, cooking food, eating food, taking pictures of food, talking about the food I ate yesterday and planning what food I'm going to eat tomorrow - so much so that I've turned it into my daytime career. Aside from a depleted bank balance and love handles that will not quit, my obsession with all things edible has given me the spectacular ability to get stains and sticky finger marks all over every single possession I own. I ban myself from buying £4 white t-shirts on this basis, so I'm sure as shit not going to spend upwards of £300 on something that will invariably end up covered in tomato soup and biscuit crumbs. 

I carry pens

Recently I had to buy a card for a friend, and so I bought a seemingly innocent looking biro to fill it in on the bus. I tossed it casually in my pleather Topshop tote, naively cooing 'ooh, that'll come in handy later, what a successful adult I am!' - blind to the blotchy horror that was about to unfold. Two weeks later, I sat at my desk, pulling gloopy ink-stained items from the depths of each inner pocket - which, once a pretty pale pink, had now become a murky 90s tie dye. Not only had I ruined a three-week old white iPhone 5 and my favourite leather purse, I had ruined my bag - and I can only imagine my anguish if the costs were comparable.

I take my entire make up collection with me EVERYWHERE 

So, if I've not already destroyed my hypothetical quilted Chanel with the blood of 1,000 innocent pens and packets of week-old Belvita, I also wear an absolute trowelful of foundation every day. Subsequently everything I own eventually becomes a vaguely dirty shade of orange, and unless my expensive bag was a very specific shade of tan, this would be troublesome. Make up, rather beautifully, is not bound by colour and can stain black, white, blue, red and any other hue with equal ferocity - but if that hue has cost me half a month's rent, I'd probably find this less beautiful and more tear-inducingly infuriating. 

I take the tube

Much as I love public transport and all of its quirks, the tube is an utterly filthy place. Just blow your nose after you get off the Central line and you'll see what I mean. But it's not just the pollution that makes me question the cleanliness of the seats I sit on daily - I've seen beer, milkshake, burger sauce and even, on one truly revolting Monday morning, an absolute volcano of baby sick sprayed across those seats, and I'm not convinced that they're scrubbed with any kind of enthusiasm. Would you drag your most precious object through an array of those substances? No. Thought not. Me neither - and I wouldn't let other people sneeze and sweat on it either. 

THEFT

Each day I leave my flat secure in the certainty that no opportunist, no matter how desperate they are, is going to steal my current battered Zara zip-up. Many opportunists, on the other hand, would like to steal a shiny new Longchamp with the (supposed) array of credit cards and expensive technology contained within. Clever thieves target those who appear rich and wealthy - so yes, there's a reason I constantly look this tired and scruffy, AND ITS ALL TO AVOID THIEVERY. 

There are many other things I'd like to buy with £450 instead

Post university, I've found out just how expensive it is to exist in London at all, and the possibility of buying a house seems like a pipe dream that depends solely on the inheritance of a mystery relative or my unwavering dedication to scratchcards. However, the cost of a designer bag that I will inevitably wreck is another baby step closer to that dream. I think we have established that I am not a careful human, and therefore my money is much safer, more productive and useful in the savings account I keep it in. Until there's an ASOS sale on, obviously.