There are millions of things that I want. The diamond-encrusted, gold-hardware Hermès Birkin bag that sold for $203,150 this week—the highest price ever paid for a handbag at public auction (in Dallas, where else?)—is not one of them.

Diamonds are a bit last century. A flat stomach and property portfolio are a girl’s new BFs. And carting an Hermès around really old-ladies up a look. Since I’m not an old bag, I can be separated from my anti-aging serum when it doesn’t fit in my pocket.

It’s hard to get excited about designer handbags when my mother was the original Kelly junkie, back when Victoria Beckham was still chunky. My head bobbed at just the right height to get conked by her alligator Birkin when I was five and couldn’t fight back. Mummy looked more Tippi Hedren than Grace Kelly, though nobody knew who Tip was at the time because Sienna Miller hadn’t yet been signed to play her in the Hitchcock stalker drama.

Muggers in sexy Soho pick on people who look like they deserve it, so the no-handbag thing works for me. Mr. Lash is my cash-carrying, to-live-for accessory. And when Mummy goes, and I hope that won’t be much longer, we will throw her in the grave with Granny and eBay all her old bags.