I’ve rarely felt as adrift from my comfort zone as I did last week when I found myself wandering slack-jawed through the gilded halls of Harrods in the wrong trousers.
As soon as I walked through the heavy metal doors I knew it wasn’t the place for me. Beautiful men with perma-tans, artfully sculpted facial hair and teeth as white as their crotch-hugging jeans strutted the halls like they owned them. Some were so dazzled by their amazingness that they had to wear sunglasses indoors. Armies of perfectly made-up women looking like – I imagine – Kardashians struggled with bags from designers so exclusive I’d never even heard of them.
The Popes had to eat so we headed for the food hall. “I’m not feeding my children Kobe beef or Russian caviar,” I muttered as I swerved us past heavy marble counters groaning under the weight of gleaming ice crystals and a meat counter offering a platter of “baby chicken, half duck, lamb cutlets and Merguez sausage” for £100.
I hid my shorts of shame using my family as a shield and we were shown to a table under a flowering tree
Harrods is a most confusingly laid out shop with lifts that go to random floors and stairs more suited to an Escher print. After several wrong turns, which took us repeatedly through a diamond hall maze where staff looked through us, I had to do a thing I hate doing. I had to ask someone for directions to somewhere other than the food hall where food might be found.
Skanky shorts
We were directed to the tea rooms and after more wrong turns, found a brassy lift which agreed to take us there. As we waited for a table, I’d cause to regret my wardrobe choice. The skanky shorts and t-shirt combo was wrong for a place where stooped men of advancing years gently vacuumed red velvet sofas as beautiful people in sharply cut waistcoats delivered morsels of sharply cut sandwiches to bored diners.
I hid my shorts of shame using my family as a shield and we were shown to a table under a flowering tree. The red velvet sofa felt lovely against my naked calves and I relaxed. I felt more comfortable when another family arrived and I noticed the solitary man in their party also wearing shorts. My comfort turned to more shame when I realised they were Irish. "What will all these men in tight white jeans, Armani loafers and ankles untroubled by socks make of us Paddies who can't even afford trouser legs," I thought.
A waiter handed us menus and an hour later handed me a bill. Lunch for two adults and two children was £134 (or €150). For that we got a sausage roll, a chicken breast, two sandwiches, cold fries, an own-brand beer, tea for one (a tenner!), lemonade and cake.
After lunch we explored the children’s clothes section, walking floors covered with carpets richer and thicker than minor royals. The stock prices horrified, amused, depressed and outraged me to varying degrees.
As he handed her his card, I had to stop myself whispering urgently into his ear just how close Primark was
There was a dress for an eight-year-old with a price tag of £5,050 – and no, that is not a misprint. A pair of sparkling pink shoes for a baby – a baby without any need for shoes – were £175. A babygro was £94.95, a hat was £80 and a cashmere onesie cost £285. I looked at my gorgeous little baby in her Penney’s leggings and M&S t-shirt covered in drool and lunch and wondered if I’d failed at life because I couldn’t afford a handwash-only cashmere onesie to cover her perfect skin.
Then I felt indignation. Much to the mortification of my family, I marched up to a shop assistant and asked who in their right mind would pay 300 quid for a romper suit or £100 for a newborn’s babygro?
The question clearly caught her off guard but rather than calling security she smiled. “Oh you’d be amazed. There really is a market for this stuff. And it is really good quality and... No, you’re right,” she said. “They’re just paying for brand names because they can.”
Despite my outrage, I resolved not to leave without buying at least one thing for at least one of my little girls
She saw a customer fitting that description lost among the baby things. He said he was looking for an outfit for a newborn. I couldn’t help eavesdropping as the exchange reached its climax. A couple of babygros, a dress and a hat set him back £349. As he handed her his card, I had to stop myself whispering urgently into his ear just how close Primark was.
Despite my outrage, I resolved not to leave without buying at least one thing for at least one of my little girls. I settled on a teether for a tenner. After chatting amicably with the woman at the till I collected my receipt, put the teether in my skanky shorts pocket and left.
“Where’s the bag,” my better half asked as we headed towards the Knightsbridge Tube Station.
“Oh, I didn’t bother with one,” I said.
“You didn’t get the bag? Everyone gets the bag. What is the point of shopping in Harrods if you don’t get to walk around with the bag afterwards?”
I honestly have no idea.