The first freelance assignment I took on after Elliot was born scared me senseless. It was ridiculous as it was from my old workplace, and it was an editing job I had executed without much fuss the previous three years in a row. It had been awhile since anyone had expected anything of me other than producing milk, doing laundry, making meals and baking the occasional cake for a fundraising baby sale.
When I completed it, and sent in my invoice, it was like I had climbed a mountain. Clearly I needed a reward.
It was a grim February in London: a grey, dense and rainy month that seemed three times as long as its 28 days. I wavered as I looked at the Cambridge Satchel Company site, wouldn’t black be more practical? But what kept drawing my eye was that gorgeous, luminous egg-yolk yellow. As this was a reward, why not be impractical? I thought.
And so that’s how I came to be the owner of one of my favourite items ever in the whole world, my yellow satchel. Blind stamped with my initials, which you can barely see now, it brings me joy every time I use it. Approximately two people a day exclaim over its colour. Yes, it’s a bit big. Yes, it’s as inflexible as it looks. Yes, the strap is narrow and digs in sometimes. Yes, those are real buckles I have to undo and do up again every time I want something. I don’t care. I love it.
I’m considering purchasing a friend for my yellow satchel, in a lovely vibrant red. I’m almost worried my yellow one will feel neglected.
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