I used it once, maybe twice. Too awkward to keep hold of along with my drink and my dignity. I think it ended up in a beer puddle and I stowed it away after that, to protect both the clutch bag and the idea of needing the clutch bag. It’s still there, 13 years later, in a drawer, along with maybe a dozen others I’ve acquired and barely used either. I have teeny embellished pouches and sparkling vintage purses ; strokable velvet envelopes; pleather pocketbooks; the kind of miniature Borrower-sized baguettes that we used to call 'armpit warmers' at school because that was basically all they were good for. The peeling, baby pink number I’m holding in a Facebook album titled 'Oceana good timezz'. They’re all tucked away in there like an archive for the Museum of Lost Fun.