The Consultation That Changed Everything (Mostly My Bank Balance)
It began, as all truly questionable decisions do, with a targeted Instagram advertisement. Between a post about sourdough starter and another about someone's enlightened morning routine, there it was: "Is your handbag blocking your abundance? Spiritual Accessories Assessment with Ptolemy Moonweaver, certified in Vibrational Object Therapy."
Now, I consider myself a reasonably sensible person. I separate my recycling, I don't believe everything I read in the Daily Mail, and I've never once considered that my trusty canvas tote from Oliver Bonas might be the reason I can't afford a mortgage. But something about that advertisement—perhaps the way it combined my two greatest anxieties, financial instability and fashion inadequacy—made me click "Book Now" with the fervour of someone placing a bet on the Grand National.
Enter Ptolemy: Part Mystic, Part Management Consultant
Ptolemy Moonweaver operates from what she calls a "sacred studio space" above a vegan bakery in Dalston. The sacred studio space is, upon closer inspection, a converted bedsit with crystals arranged on every available surface and the persistent aroma of nutritional yeast wafting up from below.
Ptolemy herself is a woman of indeterminate age who has clearly invested heavily in flowing fabrics and statement jewellery. She greets me with the kind of intense eye contact typically reserved for airport security checks and immediately zeroes in on my handbag with the precision of a sniffer dog at customs.
"Oh my," she breathes, recoiling slightly. "That's quite a dense energy field you're carrying there."
I look down at my bag—a perfectly innocent canvas shopper that has served me faithfully through three years of grocery runs, gym kit transportation, and the occasional smuggling of wine into the cinema. It seems harsh to describe its energy field as dense, but then again, I'm not certified in Vibrational Object Therapy.
The Diagnosis: Worse Than I Feared
"Your bag," Ptolemy announces after a thorough examination involving crystals, a pendulum, and what appears to be a tuning fork, "is manifesting severe financial trauma. The canvas is absorbing your scarcity vibrations and reflecting them back into your abundance pathway."
She delivers this diagnosis with the gravity of a consultant explaining that I need my appendix removed, which is somewhat unsettling given that we're discussing an inanimate object I purchased for £12 in the sale.
"But worse than that," she continues, warming to her theme, "the polyester lining is creating what we call a 'prosperity dam.' Every time you reach for your purse, you're reinforcing neural pathways of limitation."
I want to point out that every time I reach for my purse, I'm usually reinforcing neural pathways of mild panic about whether I've remembered my Oyster card, but Ptolemy is already moving into treatment recommendations.
The Solution: Predictably Expensive
The cure for my abundance-blocking accessory, it transpires, involves a complete energetic overhaul. Ptolemy recommends what she calls the "Prosperity Protocol"—a £1,200 investment in a hand-stitched leather tote from a "conscious luxury" brand that sources its materials from "ethically awakened cattle."
"Leather," she explains, "is a naturally abundant material. It carries the prosperity consciousness of the animal kingdom. Canvas, by contrast, is manufactured, processed, spiritually dead. It's the McDonald's of handbag materials."
I try to process the idea that my bag is the metaphysical equivalent of a Big Mac while Ptolemy pulls up the recommended replacement on her laptop. The "Awakened Abundance Tote" looks suspiciously similar to a normal brown leather bag, except for the £1,200 price tag and a product description that reads like a collaboration between Gwyneth Paltrow and a business studies textbook.
The Moment of Truth (And Financial Reckoning)
Something in Ptolemy's earnest expression—or perhaps the way she's positioned herself between me and the door—convinces me that this is a legitimate investment in my financial future. After all, what's £1,200 if it unlocks unlimited abundance? It's practically an investment, really. A spiritual investment.
Twenty minutes later, I'm walking down Kingsland Road £1,295 poorer (the consultation fee was non-negotiable, apparently), clutching a receipt for a handbag that won't arrive for six to eight weeks and wondering if buyer's remorse counts as a scarcity vibration.
The Aftermath: Still Spiritually Bankrupt
Three weeks have passed since my abundance assessment, and I'm pleased to report that my financial situation remains resolutely unchanged. I'm still checking my bank balance with the trepidation of someone awaiting exam results, still calculating whether I can afford both lunch and a coffee, still experiencing mild heart palpitations at the self-service checkout in Waitrose.
The only difference is that I'm now doing all of this while carrying a canvas tote that I'm convinced is actively sabotaging my prosperity. Every trip to Sainsbury's feels like an exercise in spiritual self-harm. Every time I reach for my purse, I can practically feel my abundance pathway clogging up like a drain full of hair.
Ptolemy assured me that the effects of the Awakened Abundance Tote would be immediate and transformative. "You'll feel the shift in your cellular prosperity memory within hours," she promised. "Money will flow to you like water to the ocean."
So far, the only thing flowing like water to the ocean is my actual money, disappearing into the vast digital void of online transactions with the efficiency of a particularly aggressive tide.
The Uncomfortable Truth About Spiritual Shopping
Perhaps the most unsettling realisation from this whole experience is how readily I embraced the idea that my financial struggles could be solved by purchasing something. The irony of spending money I don't have to fix my money problems is not lost on me, though apparently it was completely invisible during the consultation itself.
There's something uniquely modern about the way wellness culture has colonised our relationship with material possessions. We can't just have stuff anymore; our stuff must be aligned, awakened, conscious, and spiritually optimised. A bag can't simply carry our belongings; it must carry our intentions, our energy, our entire relationship with the universe.
And if that bag happens to cost £1,200, well, that's just the price of spiritual evolution.
The Awakened Abundance Tote is due to arrive next week. I'll be collecting it using public transport, because despite my cellular prosperity memory apparently being in the process of upgrading, my Oyster card balance remains stubbornly terrestrial.
In the meantime, I'm stuck with my abundance-blocking canvas shopper, trying not to think about the fact that I've essentially paid nearly £1,300 to feel bad about a perfectly functional bag. If that's not a scarcity vibration, I don't know what is.
