Saturday, 5 October 2013

Feeding on the Floor

Feeding on the floor outside Door 3 of Harrods to be precise.

Like a vagrant, people walked past me and stepped over me without a second glance, me and my invisible child, the 2 doormen there blindly refused to acknowledge my existence.

But it an was an absorbing place to be - floor level, green shoes, red shoes, studded shoes, diamanté shoes, and that was just the men. The amount of fawning carried out by the doormen seemed to be in direct proportion to the extravagance of the shoes on display.

Door 3 appears to be a semi secret side entrance, there is a yellow lined space just outside the doors, just the right size and length for the steady stream of limos, large BMWs and Mercedes that pulled up outside and disgorged mainly Arab families.

The doormen recognised many of the cars, you could tell who was and was not a regular visitor, a big spender, I guess, by the speed with which they danced attendance and whether 1 or 2 doormen went to the car.

I didn't realise a plain black hijab could be so intricate and so absolutely beautiful, intricate lace of many types and some of the fabrics, plain black but so smoothly flowing, quality shining from every strand.

I could have sat there all day, because the shoes, an array of high heeled, multi coloured, many gemmed shoes, were like a fashion show of the highest quality. I guess when you have a lot of money and the only part of you on display is your feet, you are going to dress them up and put on the best display you can. Like a peacock.

There were jeans, skirts, short and long, but, with my eyes like stalks, I often wondered, how could you walk, never mind stride with confidence in eye wateringly high heels like that.

There were women and children, relatively few men, although one lady strolled past, followed by what were clearly her minders, I have never seen a real life bodyguard before. It was all very exciting, I could have literally sat there for hours, watching the world flow by, the very rich mingling with the average tourist all happily ignoring the breast feeding mother sat on the floor watching the world in minature in the doorway of Harrods.

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