I went out with a friend today to see the Van Gogh exhibition at the Royal Academy in London.

On the way we walked down the famous Burlington Arcade with the beautiful jeweller’s shops full of tiaras, Rolex and rubies big as pigeon’s eggs. I knew I couldn’t afford anything because nothing had a price on.

The nicest shop we looked in was the St Petersburg Collection of new Faberge (grandson of Carl) and those lovely lacquer boxes made in Palekh and Mstera.

The one I really liked was a spectacle case decorated with exquisite cats sitting on a tree which shimmered with mother of pearl. Whoever painted them knows cats; they were perfect down to the last whisker.
Now if someone really wealthy bought such a case for their Bugatti spectacles say, would the inside of their Gucci or Lulu Guinness handbag be lined with such soft leather that the spectacle case wouldn’t suffer the battering mine does, because you wouldn’t want those beautiful cats being rubbed away and the mother of pearl chipping off.

Or do such very rich women clear and change their bags every day to match their outfit, and don’t then stuff them with the accoutrements of everyday life. Today in mine I accumulated a set of Van Gogh postcards, a free copy of the London Evening Standard and a bag of Maltesers for the teenager to add to the door keys, pen, pencil for surfaces where a pen won’t write, travel pass, selection of clean hankies, small torch in case of blackout on the underground, packets of sugar which might come in handy, Swiss army knife ditto, folded shopping bag because you don’t get given one as a matter of course in many places anymore. Perhaps they only carry an iphone and a platinum MasterCard. Everything else they have delivered to Claridges or carried by the PA.

Middle age wants to know.