Oh, Speccy, have you found a remote, quaint, tourist spot to visit? Are you about to reveal a hidden gem?
Sorry to disappoint you, folks, but I’m not as cultured as I let on. I was a shopping tourist. Outlet shopping. But no mere Next, Marks and Spencer or GAP in Bicester. Here be the big guns- Dior, Prada, Dolce and Gabana.
It’s when I’m there I know I’ll never be a proper shopper. It’s wonderful to look at and touch real Dior garments, but these are well out of my league, even heftily reduced (e.g. a beautiful coat reduced from £3,300 to £900-ish). I was happy to look at the pottery, but I didn’t have a checklist of what I needed to complete my collection. I wasn’t totally convinced by the woman declaring that her laptop sleeve had to match her handbag- what else would a stylish woman want? I won’t be able to call again next week to see the new range.
That’s ok. I’m an observer in the world of high end fashion. My Boots sunglasses didn’t quite cut the mustard. I should have had a long cashmere cardigan. I could practise carrying my bag in the crook of my elbow rather than on my shoulder, but it didn’t feel any more natural. I was wearing neither high heels nor flat pumps. I live in a fashion free zone. I wondered about the need to invest in something orange.
There was a queue outside the door at Prada. I’d hoped to go in, but whatever the queue was for, I couldn’t afford it. My nosiness remained unsatified.
My shopping? Flipflops, a cardigan, some presents.
Nothing from Gucci, Anya Hindmarch or Diane von Furstenberg. Not even anything from Mulberry.
Something orange did sneak in…