If you've ever wondered why women's clothes have such useless pockets, this is the story of where they went, and the pouch we ended up making instead.

My husband has pockets. I carry a bag. This arrangement works brilliantly for him.

It was our fifteenth anniversary this weekend. We went into the West End, drank cocktails, ate a lovely meal, and contemplated what our next fifteen years might look like.

Somewhere between our front door and the bill, I became the keeper of a new watch strap, a battery pack and several receipts.

I couldn't tell you when my husband's things started going in my handbag. He has pockets, I have a bag, and a bag apparently means I've volunteered to be the family pack mule.

1.   Where did all the pockets go?

I've been listening to Avery Trufelman's podcast, Articles of Interest, about the clothes we wear. Its episode on pockets is a truly fabulous listen (it's 20 minutes, and well worth your time).

It made me suddenly notice the difference between my clothes and my husband's.

His jeans have always fitted his phone, his keys and his wallet. Mine won't even fit my phone. It's always half hanging out, ready to make a bid for freedom.

And when I am in my office clothes, I have no pockets at all. I lose my pass more often than I'd like to admit. I'm forever dropping my phone, my pens and my notebook. (Apparently tucking things into your bra is frowned upon at work.)

The lack of workable pockets in women's clothing is really a thing.

It wasn't always like this. Until around 1900, a woman's pocket was a separate item. A flat pouch tied around the waist, worn under her skirts and reached through a slit. Duchesses had them. So did washerwomen.

Historians going through old court records, letters and diaries have found them holding cake, snuff boxes, yards of ribbon, a picture of a lover, seventeen pairs of gloves and, in one case, two live ducks.

I still have questions. Were the ducks there for the cake? Was there a pocket specifically for ducks? Who thought ducks were a sensible thing to carry in a pocket?

The finest were beautifully embroidered, though only the wearer, her maid and perhaps her lover would ever see them. Private, personal and, I am betting, firmly off-limits to her husband's things.

By the early 1900s, the tie-on pocket had all but disappeared, and nothing really replaced it.

We got handbags instead, then bigger handbags, then tiny bags. Now we have different bags for different days of the week, and every one of them ends up a tangle of receipts, cables, lip balm and a pen that doesn't work.

2.  Hundreds of pouches later

My friends and I have tried everything to keep our bags organised, including pouches. Most were too big and too bulky, and the compartments built into bags were always the wrong size. As one friend put it, every pouch she'd ever owned was just another dark cavern to lose things in.

When I really started to think about it, though, I realised a small pouch inside my bag could work. It just needed to be a better pouch.

So I started making my own, first for me and then as gifts for friends I love.

Making something new isn't a straight line, and every fix showed me the next problem. I spent ages getting the base to expand so it could hold more, only to discover that I couldn't get any of it back out through the narrow opening.

I have versions in every corner of my home. One lives in my top drawer, keeping my private things away from prying eyes. That seems to be what those old pockets were very good at too.

My friends helped me work out what mattered. Each of them filled theirs with a different collection of things, but every one of them wanted to open it and find what she was looking for straight away.

Over the last two years, a dozen friends have ended up with prototypes, most with five or more each. They still use them every day and always when they travel.

Recently one friend pulled out eight prototypes when we got chatting. All of them were still going (apart from the one that got too close to her hair straighteners).

It was an oddly surreal moment for me. There they were, worn in and a little battered, carrying bits of someone else's life around. That's how I know something I've made is working. Not when it looks new, but when it has disappeared into someone's day.

They were pouches then. They became pockets when my co-founder Sioux joined and we decided to make them for other people too.

It's funny how quickly a bag stops being your own. A charger appears, then a receipt, then someone else's keys and a snack you didn't buy. By the time you notice, you're carrying a small, soft archive of everybody else's day.

Perhaps that's why I keep making pockets. I want to find my keys without emptying the whole bag, of course. But more than that, I want one small place that belongs to me again, for the things I chose to carry.

3.  In the studio this week, Plan K

We've been wrestling with packaging and labels this week. We had a plan. We spent several days trying to make it work. It didn't.

So we're onto plan B. Or possibly plan K by now.

There are only two of us, which means most things involve one of us saying, "How hard can it be?"

Quite hard, as it turns out.

We're also figuring out how we want the brand to look and feel beyond the products themselves. Our socials have become a useful testing ground. We put something out, see what happens, change our minds, try again.

If you've been following along, liking, commenting or telling us what you think, you've genuinely been part of that process. We really appreciate you.

Part of the packaging puzzle is finding something so good you'd want to hold on to it. If you've ever kept a box or label because you loved it, send us a photo and tell us why. We'd love to see what's made it past the recycling bin.

Sera

These are the good days.  Still holding those receipts.