I had to go to Harrod's today. The place drips money, like a treacly semen stain on golden undies. It also oozes class in much the same way as the bridal wear does in My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding.
We parked around the corner, where there was a pretty little park. We tried to cut through same park, only to find it was locked, as it was for residents only. For me, this symbolises everything that is wrong with Harrod's, wrong with the man driving the shiny black gigantathonic Maybach in front of me, and wrong with the uber-snotty desk-monkey manning the Watch Service Centre.
Key-holding residents of Hans Place, Knightsbrige: It's a pissy little patch of grass. It's not picturesque enough to warrant anything other than a cursory glance. You've only locked it up to show how privileged you are. I'm coming back with a spade.
Dear Mr Li: Thank you for sharing your name with me via the means of your number plate. You too ooze class. Just for the record, my name is not M799 TCW. And, even though I was in Micra, I managed to sneak it into a tiny parking space. I bet you're still driving around looking for bay capable of taking your massive, but frankly quite ridiculous, motor vehicle.
And finally, Watch Man: whose wrinkled lip and sneer of cold disdain demonstrated clearly enough that he didn't appreciate the fact that I had chosen not to spend £360 on a watch service because, quite frankly, that's the most fucking ridiculous thing I have EVER heard. Trust me, I've spoken to Spurs fans who thought they might win the title, so I know ridiculous. I'm at home now, drinking coffee and playing with my toys. You're still at work. In the basement of a department store. Handing watches to people. I can only feel pity for you. Pity, my friend. Unadulterated, pure-blooded pity.
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