Selfridges Or Bust

This cool spinning objet stationed between floors at Selfridges department store - the London equivalent of Bloomingdales.  A black woman belts the blues from the third or fourth floor; elsewhere I am assaulted by Abba and other cleverly recycled music of my middle-aged yuf to put me in the mood to buy. Buy! Buy!!  Unbelievably I round a corner to face a young woman's ass in a tight-fitting bikini brief. The underwear department. Her male partner wears pink underpants; together they dance on a moving treadmill.

So this is where models spend their days outfitted in black leggings, hooker boots and fur which is all the rage. Where else can these silly people go, really?  A stylish Japanese lady directs me to the men's department which is on the first-floor or half a city block. All I want  is a stripey winter hat.

People always mean well. They cluck their thick tongues, and shake their heads and suggest, oh, so very delicately.. . . That last bit from Psycho. I sometimes feel like Norman watching the shoppers : stupidly fondling this year's collection of over-priced fabrics with "Super Dry" or "Ralph Lauren" attached.  Should one have the money, this the last bastion of unfettered expression. And, Lord knows, the people are discerning.

This time of year, in this kind of place, I am self-loathing.