There’s something quintessentially British about stumbling across a forgotten gem in a charity shop. This week, I did just that—and I still can’t quite believe my luck. Tucked behind a row of dog-eared novels and mismatched crockery was a vintage Mulberry briefcase. Yes, Mulberry. The kind of classic piece that smells faintly of old leather, long-lost meetings, and maybe the occasional clandestine affair. Naturally, it had to come home with me.
It’s the sort of find that would have made Orla, my beloved Mistlefield protagonist, raise an approving eyebrow. She adores a bit of vintage—anything with a story, a past, a touch of the eccentric. And this briefcase certainly has stories hidden in its stitching.
The leather is weathered in all the right ways, and the lock has just the right amount of tarnish. I plan to give it a little gentle TLC—restore the leather, coax a bit of shine from the brass—but not too much. I want it to keep its character, its secrets.
And speaking of secrets… while rummaging in the back pocket, I found an old raffle ticket. Number 101. 🎟️
Now, maybe it belonged to someone hoping to win a bottle of cheap chardonnay or a novelty bath set at a village fête—but my writer brain refuses to let it rest at that. No, my mind leapt immediately (and dramatically) to George Orwell’s 1984. Room 101, anyone?
For the uninitiated: Room 101 is the stuff of dystopian nightmares—the ultimate torture chamber in the Ministry of Love, where you’re confronted with your worst possible fear. Rats, drowning, the Wi-Fi going down mid-edit… that sort of thing. It’s where Orwell's poor Winston was reduced to a gibbering wreck by a faceful of rodents.
So naturally, I’m treating this raffle ticket with a healthy mix of curiosity and comic caution. If a man in a trench coat turns up asking for “Ticket 101,” I’ll be handing it over and backing away slowly. (Although, if he’s offering answers about where this briefcase has been for the past few decades, I might risk it.)
Of course, it’s the perfect bit of kit for an author. There’s something deeply romantic about the idea of slipping my notebook and fountain pen into a briefcase with a past. It’s as if the stories I carry might mingle with the stories it already holds. And isn’t that the essence of writing? Finding the threads that connect us, across time and place and leather-bound secrets.
Until next time, I’ll be polishing brass and dreaming of raffle ticket 101…
