Wealth And Taste

Last night I happened to find myself in the designer section of the women’s shoes department of Selfridges, somewhat out of place in a sea of affluence (a sea mostly consisting of tiny foreign ladies clutching Laboutins). I then strolled down to formal menswear through the tide of mutton dressed as lamb, the not inconsiderable amount of lamb dressed as mutton and a small army of sales staff, one for every four square feet, guarding tiny cabinets containing thousands of pounds worth of cufflinks or ghosting through racks of insubstantial evening wear costing an order of magnitude more. And, just as I was leaving, there it was: a huge pile of The Lost Symbol.