A Study of Style

Today I made an expedition to Harrods in pursuit of self-gratification after a horrendous week. In fact, I am in the Dress Circle Restaurant (2nd floor, Ladies Department) as I am typing this, munching on an intoxicated brownie (the cheapest lunch in the area) and a bottle of the most fucking most expensive diet coke in the world.
Knightsbridge is a lovely area. No suspicious truck drivers staring at your clothes nor kitchen boys eyeing your laptop bag. Harrods staff endlessly pacify you if you look eager to spend above 50 quid at their till for the day. (as for me, I can only pathetically flash a pale debit card, thus they lose their smiles). Smiling security guards open doors for you, but lose their pleasant disposition if they spot an Osama look alike lurking around the entrance. Cosmetic counter salesgirls have an annoying habit of addressing you ‘madam’ even if you look painfully under aged to be shopping at Harrods.
The greatest entertainment of all lies in the shopping crowd. Tourists, locals and celebrities.
(I once spotted a Spanish actor and I almost fell to the ground, but to retain my dignity, I walked past him with my nose up and flashed my shopping bags.
That didn’t get me very far.)
Many tourists, some waddling around in awe as though they are in the London Zoo. Some, especially those in the Food Hall, treat it as their local marketplace.
My amusement is fuelled by those with a very pretentious sense of style. There were two shoppers, dressed in gawdy green and yellow, clutching the cheapest Prada handbag on the market strolled into the designer area speaking (or rather, SHOUTING) poor English at the top of their lungs. Class act? 2 outta 10. Bet you’d never see Victoria Beckham behaving like that.
Then there was a mother and daughter with multitudes of shopping bags, mother had a bling Chanel sunglasses on (Harrods interior lighting is dim by the way) and daughter (on the slightly larger side) squeezed into a tiny Von Dutch top. Style= 5 out of 10.
Money cannot buy dress sense.
There was also a teenage girl stumbling around in a pair of Manolos.. why, god, if you can’t walk gracefully, don’t wear it!!
There were some girls from Hong Kong, probably students, with designer accessories mounted all over themselves like a Christmas tree, one chatting pitch loud in Cantonese,
‘When I am here I feel like an actress, but I am on overdraft. But I am still going to get that Dior bag anyway.’
I feel very, very sorry for her parents aka financeers.

Moral of the sotry: If you cannot afford it, don’t buy it.
There is always Zara down the road.

Style is inert and comes from modesty. Don’t force it.

p.s: I'm off to Nottingham for the weekend. ciao ciao!