bag of tricks

My sales associate is a magician, with a rare talent for revealing the perfect opportunity at exactly the right moment.

Still, even the best strategy bows to timing and luck, the real wild cards. I wasn’t expecting anything yesterday. I’d collected my first quota bag of the year only four months prior. I stopped by the boutique to see my SA before her upcoming leave, with no intention of buying. But the pinnacle piece on my wish list had arrived from Paris just days earlier, one of those rare occasions when availability finally meets desire. The kind of anticipation that is delightfully lethal.

Nothing beats shopping at your home Hermès. The exclusivity, the care, the conversation, it’s personal. I’ve bought from resellers before, and it felt purely transactional: quick hands, a faceless exchange, no story, just the price.

And then there’s the unboxing. Every time, it feels like a small ceremony: that pause of suspense, that nervous little excitement, and the gentle sigh of tissue paper as the Mini Kelly emerges.

👜 Mini Kelly II in beton matte alligator & gold hardware

the cost of cheap friends

Friends are the choices that shape your life. The wrong crowd robs you of time, energy, money, and even your sense of self.

I could list a dozen good traits in a friend: kind, loyal, considerate, respectful. But there’s one deal-breaker: stinginess. Not just with money, but with words. The type who can’t give a compliment without a barb and peppers every conversation with snark. Being around them is like someone giving you multiple micro paper cuts that you’re told not to make a fuss about, until you realise you’re bleeding.

It starts in the schoolyard. First, a sip of your iced chocolate. Then your whole lunch. They take and take, subtle at first, then relentless. That’s not a friend; it’s a leech. Rip it off, let it sting, and keep walking. The skin will heal, I promise, but the mind remembers. The scars aren’t on your hands, they’re on your heart.

Left unchecked, the pattern follows you into adulthood and leaves you open to exploitation. Better an empty table than a bottomless cup. It felt like being nicked a thousand times, but I grew numb until the piggy bank shattered. When you’re young, she pockets your pearl necklace, swaps it for a plastic bracelet, and calls it a fair deal. When you’re older, she trades you lemonade scones for your king crab.

I finally cut off the spongers. A great 21st-century philosopher said it best in one of her many nuggets of wisdom: “Never be so kind you forget to be clever,” Taylor Swift writes in Marjorie.

Here’s what I’d tell my teenage self: you’re not stuck. You can leave. Real friends make you feel safe, seen, loved. Don’t let anyone treat your goodwill like an open bar tab. The worst kind of person is tight-fisted with theirs and greedy with yours. You don’t owe anyone for your good fortune. You never have to feel guilty about it, and anything you choose to share is a gift, not an obligation.

In the end, money wasn’t the gun. Three decades of cheap shots bled me dry and killed the friendship.

clay date

My daughters are my greatest motivators. Even when I’m running on empty, they ignite the spark that keeps me going. My dear friend Hue is pure inspiration. Creative, thoughtful, generous, and optimistic, she lifts everyone around her. With their encouragement and enthusiasm, I find myself capable of more than I ever imagined.

We threw together a clay date for the girls and their school friends. I didn’t think I had the energy, but their excitement made it easy to rally. Hue led the pottery workshop with her usual calm magic, patiently guiding the kids as they shaped pieces worth keeping.

Lunch was a tea party spread, served on elegant three-tiered stands with avocado maki sushi, salmon aburi, spring rolls, and egg sandwiches. I loved that these young ones are now old enough to use proper dainty porcelain tea sets.

The afternoon was a mix of quiet concentration and cheerful chaos. Our guests were kind, respectful, bright, well-mannered, and mature, exactly the sort of company I wish for my daughters. I’m so grateful my little ladies have made such genuine friends.

soft spot

Labubus have been getting a fair bit of hate lately. I’m not personally invested, but I see no reason to mock what others enjoy. Collecting thrives on rarity, the chase, and the reward. It triggers dopamine: a spark when you spot one, a bigger hit when you score it, and a warm afterglow each time you see it. That “maybe this is the secret edition” keeps the loop going and hooks people.

My version of Labubus was a group of quirky plush toys. They weren’t popular or expensive, just small-eyed, big-smiled figurines that I found completely charming. One or two became a little family without me really planning it. Most people didn’t notice their appeal, yet a couple of friends still gifted me some without judgement. I held onto them for years because they made me happy.

In my mid-twenties I redecorated my room, decided I’d moved past toys, and donated the lot.

After becoming a mum, those funny little faces came rushing back in a wave of nostalgia. I searched online and found them still floating around, some even new with tags. One in particular caught my eye: the hippy chick, soft and familiar, with a black stain on her dress like the one I remembered. She turned up in a house only ten minutes from where I grew up. She looked exactly the same. Maybe it wasn’t the original, but that didn’t matter. It felt like she had come home.