The 1.2-Litre Tumbler

They sell you hydration. Wellness. A vessel so vast it implies a personality — outdoorsy, disciplined, the sort who “gets their water in.” It arrives in colours named after emotions.

You will not drink it. The capacity is theatre; nobody is this thirsty. You’ll refill it ceremonially, haul it everywhere, and feel a private fury when a café’s ice machine cannot accommodate its girth. The handle implies cliff-faces. It travels from the kitchen to the sofa.

Magnificent, unnecessary, and almost certainly leaking in your bag right now.