Just a bit of fun...

I have an hour to kill in London and decide, despite my usual hatred of department stores, to spend it browsing in Selfridges.  From the moment I step through the door on a busy Saturday afternoon, I am morbidly fascinated.  Everything you could ever want…all under the one roof.  Perfect.

That is, just as long as you’re prepared to wade through the hordes of embittered tourists, wailing kids being pushed or pulled by their harassed parents, teenagers who appear to have walked straight off the set of ‘The Catherine Tate Show’ and designer-clad, snake-hipped men and women who literally look down their noses at you as you dare to get on the escalator.  The preponderance of each character type is directly in line with which floor you happen to be on; each one has its own distinct, fascinating culture.

Luckily, there’s one type you don’t have to worry about while you’re searching for that crucial Saturday night pulling outfit.  The store’s designers have ensured that you don’t get any hassle from the duffel-coat wearing bookish IT nerds…largely because all the merchandise that could be vaguely classed as “intelligent” is shamefully consigned to the basement (although having said that, the first sight to grab my attention as I venture down there is a gaudy pink and silver display of Victoria Beckham’s new “style bible”). Any whiff of classic literature is apologetically displayed at the back; people approach these books in the style of a businessman going into a sex shop, with that furtive, over-casual “I’m not really shopping here!” look about them.  Occasionally, one brave soul will snatch a copy of ‘Middlemarch’ from the shelf, shoving it under their coat as they make an urgent dash for the till….obviously an illicit weekend thrill.

Approaching the ground floor from the basement is like a brief vision of Hades.  Cacophonies of bright invasive lights brazenly glare out as teenagers rifle through the endless rails of cheap fabric in time with the latest chart hits.  This floor is also the main entrance to the store, so everywhere I look people are wandering round in a glazed, panicked frenzy, not daring to ask one of the scary-looking beauty consultants where they need to go for Home Furnishings.  This floor is a desperately soul-destroying place to be and I can’t wait to move on.  I don’t belong here anyway…I have no desire to look like a ‘Drag Idol’ contestant so I’m steering clear of the make-up counters and their snarling Barbara Cartland-esque guardians.  Being almost 30, I’m also completely out of place anywhere near the “teenage fashion” section.  Nothing to see here.

Things get slightly more serene as I approach the first floor, as this is the home of the Designer Ladies’ Collection and that expensive lingerie women feel luxurious in and men hate.  No teenage Vicky Pollards here; the pop music is replaced by the  more sophisticated beat of soul classics and the assistants are altogether more subtle in their hatred of the “common person” browsing through their precious designer collections.   I am subtly sized up everywhere I browse, as the assistants silently judge whether I am good enough for the vomit-yellow Ralph Lauren dress that costs five times my annual salary.  I don’t want it anyway; it’s a waste of money considering there aren’t all that many pubs in Southend I could actually wear it to.   

There are no fat people on this floor. 

Next up, the men’s clothing department.  This is a nasty hybrid of gangsta rap sounds merged with brightly coloured pieces of clothing (none of the men I know wear cerise-pink combat trousers, but then perhaps I’m just not mixing with the right people). The men on this floor are completely uninterested in the clothes; it’s the women they’re with who are showing all the enthusiasm, barging past other shoppers with armfuls of clothes and asking “Well…what do you think?” every five seconds.  Most of the men look pleasant enough, their vacant expressions betraying the fact that they are using every fibre of their imaginations to wish themselves somewhere…anywhere…else. 

The same type of men are also present in their droves on the ‘Home Furnishings’ floor.  This floor is the definition of modern domesticity, and the most visible proof I have seen of the differences between men and women.  I don’t understand why everybody on this floor is in pairs…surely these women would get so much more done if they didn’t have to ask their half-hearted companion what they think of this or that sofa or duvet cover.   Some brave men have furtively ventured over to the television and electrical section at the back.  I wish them luck.

My hour has come to an end. I don’t have any time to avail myself of the café on the fifth floor, which is a shame as the screaming children, no available seating and the limited selection of re-heated food really give it a certain je ne sais quoi.  Maybe I’ll save that experience for another day.