Je t'aime moi non plus

I picture this situation where, when leaving the party, I ask you to hand me my bag and when you ask “Which one?” I simple say, "The brown Birkin, the one on the Ottoman”. And on the taxi ride home I’d explain that this was the bag the Hermés president had designed for Jane Birkin. Apparently they had run into each other on a plane and Birkin trips and drops her handbag and all of her stuff spills onto the floor on the plane and he is amazed at all the things women carry in their bags and wonders why, no one’s designed a bag big enough to hold everything in, just like the cheap canvas thing she was carrying. Channel, Gucci, they got it all wrong. And this bag, the Birkin bag´s big enough for all the things we girls carry in our handbags which is pretty much a small kingdom that holds all these tidbits that make your day perfect: the pinkish lip-gloss, the breath freshner, the hand moisturizer, the nail filer, tweezers for the unexpected eye-brow hair growing out of season, make up kit, extra set of keys and that latest issue of this new book you’re reading by one of these enfant terrible spoilt brat of an English writer which makes you all in all a perfect snob as well, but you don’t give shit. And then this Jane Birkin woman goes off and marries the hideous looking guy Gainsbourg, and they do a couple of movies and this weird sounding piece of music in what appears to be French sex moaning. And I always think it must’ve been odd for their daughter, (the other Charlotte, Charlotte Gainsbourg I mean) to listen to her parents going at it on tape. I imagine myself listening to my parents fucking on tape and think it´s probably not my piece of cake, rather off putting, actually. But wouldn’t mind having had a handbag named after my Mum, though. Don’t have a Birkin bag but you’d probably still find a snobbish piece of literature by some Brit, in mine, what the hell!
But then again, we don´t go to parties together.