It arrived properly made. The quilting is firm, so it stands up on its own, and the dog is stitched right in, so it looks like a real handbag rather than something from a child's party. Everything from the old one fitted with room to spare, and my keys and glasses finally have a pocket of their own.
Same bench, same flat white, the little dog on the seat beside me, grinning at everyone who walks by. A woman walking past stopped and pointed. "Oh, is that your dog?"
"No," I said. "I just liked him."
She laughed so loudly her husband turned round. Then she sat down, and we talked for twenty minutes about her grandson's puppy and nothing in particular.
Three weeks earlier I had been number fifteen. Now I was the one somebody stopped for.