I bought a black shoulder bag from a market stall in 2014 for eleven quid, the strap snapped on the Northern Line within a fortnight, and I still, somehow, held a grudge against the entire category for about six years. That’s on me, not the bags. A proper one, the kind with actual hardware and a strap that’s stitched rather than glued, changes your mind fast.
What makes a black shoulder bag worth the space in your life is the bit that sounds boring but isn’t: the drop of the strap. Too long and it swings into doorframes and other people’s drinks. Too short and you look like you’re bracing for a rugby tackle.
The good ones sit at the point on your ribs where you stop thinking about them, which is the whole point of a bag you’re meant to wear all day, not just carry to one event and regret by nine.
Structure matters more than size here. A soft, slouchy one goes with everything loose, wide trousers, an oversized coat, the sort of outfit that needs something with a bit of shape to stop it looking like laundry day. A stiffer, boxier one does the opposite job, it sharpens up a plain jumper and jeans combination that would otherwise say nothing at all. I own examples of both and reach for whichever one is currently arguing with the rest of the room.
Gold hardware reads a bit more evening, silver or matte fittings pull it back towards Tuesday. My colleague Priya once described my going out bag as looking like “a briefcase that’s had a few drinks,” which I’ve chosen to take as a compliment because it’s exactly the energy I wanted.
These earn their keep on the days that don’t have one clear outfit brief, work through to dinner, a lunch that might turn into wine, the school run followed by absolutely nothing that requires a school run bag. Black means it doesn’t argue with anything else you’re wearing, it just gets on with the job, which is more than I can say for that eleven pound strap.
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