One word: Prada. Two words: Prada bag. I want, no, I NEED a Prada bag. Prada, Prada, Prada. Owning a Prada bag means owning a matching pair of Prada shoes and a matching Prada purse. However, I am focussed solely on clasping the pink leather handbag tight to my hips as I walk around feeling very smug with myself because, I, yes me, have a brand new Prada bag.
Awash with mundane wannabes, the likes of Gucci, D&G and even Louis Vuitton have not a touch on the elegance, simplicity and class of you Prada. A presence walks with you as you wander the store, gazing lovingly at the displays of graceful designs whilst wondering which one was made for you. These bags are made to fit lovingly on your arm, flattering each curve you have and making onlookers jaws drop as you look simply fabulous darling. The shop assistant can taste your longing and sense your urgency as each step you take coincides with your beating heart desperate to find “the one.” There isn’t a man that walks this planet that makes your heart race so dramatically. The shop assistant picks out the two bags my eyes are burning into, carefully placing them on the counter top as I admire every angle and detail. No man ever looked this good. I slide one through to my elbow and take stance in front of the mirror. It’s meant to be. My entire image is transformed. I look, if I dare say so (I do say so) incredible. Marvelous. I am in a different league.
Except I don’t want to put down the bag or give it back. I want to hold it forever, take it for walks and for coffee. Happiness is flowing through me like champagne flowing freely into crystal glasses. A never ending surge of pure joy that makes me want to look at everyone that looks at me and scream, “I have a Prada bag!” and totter around like I am someone beautiful because I am as long as I have the bag. It makes me shine with radiance. The shop assistant is eyeing me with a smile across his face, no doubt feeling that adrenaline of making a sale, hearing the till ping open and depositing a lovely percentage of commission. His heart sinks like a jewel on the titanic as I hand it back and say I have not the funds for such a beautiful bag. My credit card hates me and I am yet to be paid. However, he writes down the product description and I walk away towards the doors, Prada’s presence walking out with me and waving goodbye as I cross the line back into the real world.
Instead of writing to Father Christmas, I am writing to you Prada. All I want for Christmas is a Prada bag, Prada. This one will make me happy and I promise look after it all year not just for Christmas:
My Philosophy for life is this; Another woman may touch my man, but never my Prada bag.