COCD

Lamtinaland shone always at a precarious meeting point between cheerful commotion and absolute chaos. Sunlight bounced off radiant, rain-speckled hills, swept over crowded market stalls, and carried the tangy bite of the sea through narrow, jumbled streets. Evelyn knew the city not by its landmarks, but by life's minutiae: her neighbour's dry laughter, her mother's perfect piecrust folding, her father's half-magic coin tricks, or the scratchy jazz through every floorboard come breakfast time.

Evelyn slipped into the swirl by instinct, piecing her days together like bits of sea glass in the sun—scraps of overheard arguments, the thrum of tea kettles, the steady thread of routine making up the city's soul.

The rhythm vibrated differently at Kingsley Bank, where Evelyn clocked in throughout the week. Paperwork rustled in strict ballet, coffee mugs were branded on every desk, and admin banter sometimes transformed into glimpses of genuine camaraderie. Characters flitted in and out—Simon's boots thudding as he arrived late, Harriet's glasses perpetually sliding down her nose with a tune, Joel rescuing racks of scones at bakery closeouts, Ayesha's Bollywood ringtone slicing through lull hours, and Mrs. Vera Campbell handing out tales of post-war gardens at lunch. These people permeated Evelyn's life quietly, their oddities and kindnesses woven in through daily effort and proximity.

Everyone took on shape in detail: Sally balanced six teas with calm grace, Daniel hummed Beatles songs under his breath, the tired temp's laughter sparked hope late on a Thursday. Their quirks glowed amid the city's drizzle and sun-dappled flagstones.

Evelyn's independence began modestly: a threadbare flat above island cafés, noisy commutes via ferries and teenagers' radios, and a wardrobe that swerved between borrowed elegance and market finds—tailored blazer on Tuesday, vintage wool skirt come Friday—each cherished, from her gran's purse to a dusty high street clutch.

But everything shifted the morning she spotted a red Chanel Classic Flap clutched by Clarissa in the mirrored lift—a bag dazzling enough to beguile the bravest commuter. It was more than a bag. It was inheritance, legend, temptation—out of reach yet close enough to ache for.

That night, longing arrived. Its roots crept into Evelyn's spare time—forums, listings, reviews, obsession growing with every swipe. She learned the secret language: Caviar versus Lambskin, the musical snap of a genuine clasp. Soon she lusted after Hermès orange, studied the fine clouds inside Louis Vuitton trunks, sighed for YSL's fog-drenched bravado. Still, day-to-day life ran on canvas shoppers and battered bookbags. Reality and fantasy swerved alongside each other.

As her collection grew, so did her protectiveness, escalating subtly and overtly. She refused to walk outside with her luxury bags if the sky even hinted at a spit of rain, covered her designer purses with scarves in the communal kitchen, and issued a blanket ban on all snacks anywhere near her collection. Teammates watched her pat down bags for unseen lint and police the coat rack with growing suspicion.

Sally whispered to Harriet one afternoon, "She wiped a tiny fingerprint off her Mulberry clutch for five whole minutes." Joel watched her freeze at the mere mention of a team pizza night, glancing at her bag like it might catch stray olive oil through sheer force of will. Ayesha once joked, "Does she love that Chanel or is she just keeping it hostage?" These moments—the tension, side glances, muffled laughter—heralded a quiet change in the office atmosphere.

Her friends, with that uniquely British blend of exasperation and care, tried to keep the mood buoyant. Harriet mused, "If I buy another bag, my rucksack will mutiny." Joel dubbed her "future president of the luxury preservation society." Simon threatened to take a brolly to protect her Birkin from showers. The jokes softened the edges until her overprotection made real ripples through the team.

Worse, anxiety metastasised. Each new handbag acquisition left her on edge. She battened down her flat against spills, washed her hands before opening zippers, and refused lunch invitations lest a crumb threaten her investment. Lists, rules, and boundaries multiplied. What had sparkled became a gilded cage.

Mum, always sharp, saw through her efforts: "There's more to days than handbags and disinfectant, darling. Isn't this getting out of hand?" Her family doctor, Dr. Caldwell, echoed similar concerns, gently suggesting she consult a specialist. Evelyn reluctantly agreed and soon met Dr. Benedict—a wry psychiatrist whose kindness and candour dismantled her defences. Dr. Benedict's evaluation was direct: Evelyn teetered at the precipice of obsessive-compulsive disorder, anchored specifically to her prized belongings.

Medication and cognitive-behavioural therapy became her new routine—capsules discreetly hidden in her tote, appointments with counsellor Jasmine prompting her through stinging, necessary tests: placing a Chanel bag on a sticky pub table, abandoning checklists, leaving crumbs unswept. But recovery came at a price—literally. Sessions, prescriptions, and consults snatched away pounds at a clip. For the first time, Evelyn hesitated: another month of therapy, or a new bag glittering in the shop window?

Amidst this, the absurdity of daily life held. Harriet came bearing thrifted finds for support, Joel shielded her purses with his coat in a sudden shower, Mrs. Campbell barked, "Don't let dust bags run your schedule!" and Simon pressed a smooth pebble in her palm "for luck."

One muggy Monday, Evelyn, anxious yet determined to keep her treatment discreet, took her prescribed pill in the pantry. She didn't notice Kelly—her strawberry-blonde ponytail notorious for entering rooms before she did—catching her in the act. A flicker of worry crossed Kelly's face; she hurried back to the team. "Have you noticed Evelyn lately?" she confided, "She's—well, honestly, she's been acting odder than usual. There's the fuss with the bags, the cleaning, the panic over takeaways…" The team nodded in reluctant agreement.

Sally added, "She wouldn't touch my homemade cake because she thought a crumb would stain her YSL." Daniel mused, "And she flippin' ran halfway up the road when that pigeon flew near her purse." Even Joel, who admired her taste, remarked, "Something's off. She sits there when we're all knackered, reordering her tote like it's the crown jewels."

The worry built until, gently, the team decided to "trap" Evelyn during tea break. Concerned faces rang her—Harriet, Simon, Sally, Daniel, Joel, and even Ayesha's ringtone were silenced. The questions began, soft but insistent. At first, Evelyn dodged, assured them it was all nothing—just being careful, busy, and tired. But their patience and loyalty chipped away at her resolve. With a shaky sigh, she finally confessed the truth: her protectiveness, the compulsions, the doctor's warnings, the diagnosis, and the treatment.

Ah Ah Ah Ah, it seemed that a crow was flying over their heads like in the Japanese comic book "Dr. Slump, Whenever there was an uncomfortable silence among the characters at awkward situations, a crow would fly over and sing "Ah Ah Ah."

Then, suddenly, Kelly couldn't help herself and burst out, "Well, most people get OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder; Evelyn, but you—yours is next-level. COCD! Chanel Obsessive Compulsive Disorder!"

There was a split-second of uncertainty—then laughter erupted, because it felt so painfully precise yet deeply, achingly funny. For a long moment, Evelyn froze, unsure if she should laugh or cry. But half a minute later, she fixed Kelly with a crooked smile and said, "Oh, Kelly, you're a star. You always find the bright side, like when you landed that IPO contract over Goldman Sachs last month. Only you could carry the day, bags or no bags!" The team drew Something inside Evelyn, which shifted in laughter and warmth.

Later, flicking through a dog-eared Vogue, Evelyn read about Jane Birkin. Hermes'sHermès'swas named after her. An original and proud rule-breaker, Jane Birkin was the one who'd chucked potatoes in her high-end bag and plastered a sticker on its logo—"A bag's for using, not for haunting!" The sight of Jane Birkin's battered Birkin trailing oranges, not ghosts, hit home. Something unravelled in Evelyn, a knot finally loosened.

She finally grasped the beautiful lesson quietly woven into the wild lights of Lamtinaland: it’s the woman who infuses meaning into a bag, not the other way around. Luxury has the power to inspire delightful dreams or subtly constrain us. The secret is to embrace it lightly, cherishing exquisite items for their beauty and craftsmanship, allowing them to spark joy rather than bind us. This self-gift serves as a reminder that perfection and grace can shine through even the most chaotic moments. That’s what true luxury is all about: the freedom to celebrate joy, basking in the brilliance that exists amidst life’s wondrous, vibrant disorder. Let’s revel in it! wondrous, vibrant disorder. Let’s revel in it!

Evelyn left the office, and when she was on the street, standing at the intersection, Evelyn thought, "I could go right and head home, but turning left would take me...yeah, the shopping mall. "

In the end, Evelyn decided to go shopping. Perhaps she would buy one more CHANEL Boy 2.55. Exciting!