Morning:
8°c
Can there be any ordeal more dispiriting, more dehumanising, more wretched than shopping in Selfridges? No. But for some reason I again found myself wandering into the place last week. I thought it might be more bearable this time, as I knew more or less what I wanted: a purse (black, oblong) for my fiancÈe's birthday. I could picture the thing in my mind and Selfridges, which once had a reputation for quality, seemed to be the place to find it.
But Selfridges no longer lends itself to buying anything specific, selling itself on experience rather than practicality. So the simple question "Where would I find a purse?" is met with the answer "Everywhere and nowhere" - and you must traipse from stall to dispiriting stall, deciphering the semiotics of branding and assessing the gaudy trinkets offered by Louis Vuitton or DKNY.
The shop is aimed at people who are after Chanel or Gucci as opposed to, say a scarf or a shoe. And what strange creatures they are: generally young, in couples, with a holiday sort of air, a vacant look and indeterminate foreign accent. Perhaps the children of the non-domiciled foreign businessmen who have turned our city into their private playground. Watch them buy a chocolate fountain and a pair of Prada loafers: these are the people safeguarding our economy. What do they dream, I wonder, when they go to bed at night?
Having been physically sick at the Versace franchise, I wandered into the more affordable "High Street" section, full of native females perusing brands such as Oasis. I generally consider myself a bit of a feminist and like to think it is this instinct, rather than visceral misogyny, that so pains me at the sight of the ugly feminine hordes, fighting each other for shoes.
But they are victims compared to the staff, who are paid solely to patronise you. And this is not taking in the obnoxious, competing soundtracks. Before you know it, you are in the Smythson's section, wondering why an ugly green passport holder might be worth £150, then realising that after an hour, you are still empty-handed. Unable to face starting again in a new shop, I plumped eventually for a Mulberry purse. Was it what I wanted? I didn't know any more.
"This is absurd," I said tearfully to the cashier as I handed over my card. She pretended not to hear.
"You have coffee with a girlfriend, you get your beauty treatment, your laser or your Botox, and then you buy yourself a gorgeous dress," is how the store's creative director Alannah Weston describes the Selfridges experience. The revolution cannot come soon enough.
