Between the end of my Fashion Week duties and my chunnel train to Paris, I had approximately twelve hours to enjoy London.
Without the mental capacity to enjoy a museum, I spent three hours wandering Hyde Park, one on Portobello road, (which produced a vintage Louis trunk for just under ¬£5,000), one hour controlling myself in Topshop, thirty minutes trying on Vivienne Westwood at Selfridges, (where, by the way, they hang Hussein Chalayan on the same rack as Alex Wang – strange, no?), and a few rapturous minutes in Luella’s shop, because I most definitely cannot do that stateside.
In the shop, I found two perfectly dressed salesgirls, racks of covetable, witch-like clothing, a ribboned bag I might defect for and the poster at left.
Ms. Bartley’s proudly displayed the Evening Standard news banner announcing her own shop raid on the wall of her store’s back room.
Oh Luella, we love you so.