A letter from a reader

At 67, I have been stopped in the street three times this month, all because of a handbag with a little dog on it

I have never written anything like this before, and I very nearly did not. It is a handbag, of all things. But three different women stopped me in the street this month to ask about it, so it seemed easier to just tell everyone at once.

For years I carried the same sensible dark handbag. Black, or occasionally a daring brown. The sort you buy because it is practical, and then forget you even own. It did the job. It also said absolutely nothing, which at some point I had decided was the safe thing for a bag to do.

Practical, or lovely. A handbag, I had decided, was only allowed to be practical.

So I carried the dull one, year after year, and never thought there was another way.

I did not choose that on purpose. Nobody decides to be invisible. It happens quietly, one sensible black bag at a time.

How it happens

Somewhere along the way I decided that anything cheerful was not really meant for a woman my age. That the bright, characterful things were for the young, and the rest of us were to make do with beige and black and be grateful.

So I did. I bought the sensible bag, I carried it until the handles went, and I bought another one exactly like it.

And a little joylessness in the everyday things adds up over the years, more than you would think.

What I had wrong

Here is the bit I got most wrong. I thought a bag with a bit of character on it would be flimsy, or childish, or something I would be embarrassed to be seen with.

It is none of those. It is properly quilted, soft but structured, roomy enough for everything I cart about, with a zip so nothing falls out, and a proper lining inside, and soft quilted handles that sit comfortably on the shoulder. And on the front, worked right into the quilting, is the loveliest little dog. My sister has ended up with the one with the black cat asleep on a pile of books.

Practical and lovely, in the same bag. That is the combination I had assumed did not exist, and it took me until 67 to find it.

A bag for the thing you love

They are from Máire Dublin, a small Irish shop that has been quietly making the ordinary things a bit lovelier for nearly forty years.

They are quilted tote bags, and each one has a picture worked right into the quilting. There is a whole collection of dogs, cats, books, flowers and more besides, but the two everyone asks me about are the fluffy little white dog and the black cat asleep on a pile of books. You pick the one you love, rather the point of the thing.

The quilting is soft but structured, so the bag holds its shape whether it is full or nearly empty. The handles are properly stitched and sit well on the shoulder. It is roomy, it has a zip and a proper lining, and it goes in the washing machine on a delicate cycle. And the design is so nicely done that people take it for something far dearer than it is.

That is really all there is to it. It is not complicated. It is just a useful thing that somebody bothered to make beautiful.

What happened at the post office

I had it on my shoulder in the queue at the post office, not thinking anything of it.

The woman behind me asked where I got it, and we had a lovely chat about her late spaniel. That has happened more than once now, in the street, at the shops, waiting for the bus. A handbag has somehow started conversations.

What struck me, though, was how much a small thing lifted an ordinary day. I run the same errands I always did, but I catch myself smiling at my own bag, and so do other people. I did not expect a tote bag to do that.

Three things I have learned since

One. It keeps its shape, and that is what makes it look dear. Because the quilting holds its shape, it looks like a proper handbag rather than a floppy shopper, and people assume it cost a great deal more than it did.

Two. It holds far more than my old one. Roomy, with a zip and a proper lining, so my glasses and purse and the endless bits and bobs all have a home and nothing falls out.

Three. A little joy in the everyday counts. One cheerful bag made me realise how much of ordinary life I had let go grey, and I am slowly putting that right.

About the price

I will be honest, the price made me a little suspicious.

The bags start at €39.95. They were €88.95.

My first thought was that a bag this pretty and this well made would cost a fortune, because the characterful ones in the nice shops certainly do.

There is no catch that I have found. They are a small shop selling directly, so there is nobody taking a cut in the middle, and they have a closing sale on now. They are made to order, so each is made fresh. I read the reviews before I ordered the cat one for my sister, the way I imagine you are doing now. Just over three hundred of them, sitting at 4.2 stars. Not the suspiciously perfect five you see on some sites, which if anything made me trust it more. The same things kept coming up. One woman had written, "I get stopped every single time I use it, and it holds far more than my old handbag. I have bought two more as gifts." That was the one that decided it for me.

What I would tell you if we were friends

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

If you carry the same dull bag out of habit, and you have quietly decided the cheerful things are not for you any more, it is worth ten minutes of your evening to go and look.

Not because a handbag changes anything. It does not. But a little joy on your arm every ordinary day is a nicer way to live, and it is a very small price for that.

The sale is on now, they do a whole collection of dogs and cats and books and flowers and more besides, and because they are made to order the popular ones sell out.

A handbag has me chatting to strangers again, and I did not know I had missed it.

Geraldine