WHENEVER I go for a walk or travel anywhere with my children, they will inevitably hand me something to carry — a coat when they get too hot, or perhaps a banana skin. Either they have mistaken me for a valet, or they have realised one of the fundamental tenets of existence: it's a drag to carry stuff.

Which is why I'm suspicious of clutches, even if they are the de facto accessory of party season. To me it makes no sense to encumber yourself with a strapless bag that you may need to juggle with a martini glass, a canapé and a phone like some sort of cocktail-hour clown.

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