One of my greatest regrets in life is that I owned a Really Nice Handbag before I was mature enough to appreciate it. It was an Armani number: finished in cream sateen with two small handles at the top and studs on the bottom. This glorious handbag should have been seen hanging off the arm of a yummy mummy, but the only thing hung-over was me, a struggling student with a taste for Hooch and WKD.
The bag had been bought for me by someone slightly older who was vying for my affections. Sadly, neither he nor the bag managed to penetrate my heart. The handbag was impractical and became
