for what, exactly?

A month or so ago I ordered a briefcase.

Yes, a briefcase. Not a normal one from a high street shop or a catalogue, no, a really blummin' posh one, a hand-crafted one made to order in firenze by skilled italian artisans and all that. From leather that was grown on the backs of the finest herds that have grazed on the rarestest of grasses, looked after by the most purestestest of elven princesses in lands of cotton clouds and waterfalls and rainbows and dew drops.

After waiting patiently for eons whilst it was beat, cut, stretched, tanned and stitched into shape it finally arrived this morning accompanied by a fancy letter written on posh paper and lots of tissue wrapped around it. And it looks good. It looks really good. But I'm a designer for heaven's sake, I'm not really supposed to nor am I even expected to 'do' the whole 'briefcase thing' and anyway even if I was I'm not flippin' FORTY for a few more years yet and, well, I haven't got a posh pen to keep in the posh pen holderey bit or one of those writing pad folio things to get out of it in an attempt to look all meetingsey.


My butty box does fit in it rather nicely though. Aces.