piece not because of any paternal pride or interest
but because of the commercial opportunity associated with it that makes me snap
at him: "Except I'm not a brand, I'm your son," I point out. But he has
gone and I'm left shouting to no one across thousands of miles of empty air.
Our fantastically cool and expensive stereo arrives later that
day and a bloke spends a couple of hours installing it, asking if I have any idea
how state of the art this thing is. I say I don't but can I get radio 2 on it? He
doesn't see the joke and talks about watts per channel and digital quality sound
reproduction or something wanky.
Bags of clothes are delivered
from the 2cool stylist and Scarlett and I have some fun trying them on while Piers
is out lunching someone at Le Caprice and Guy is doing the same at the Savoy Grill.
Later a couple of crates of champagne are dropped off which have apparently been
ordered for entertaining in the office. Before I can stop her, Scarlett has decided
that we need some entertainment and she opens one.
But other than that there
is very little to do in the office for the most of the week. I begin to learn something,
though, that all my friends who went to work in offices after school and university
learnt many years ago: the art of paper shuffling and time killing. Scarlett and
I go for organic juices and Shiatsu massages and even spent a couple of hours shopping
on Wednesday with our 2cool credit cards: a Hugo Boss shirt for me and an outfit
from a shop called Sceeech! for a lesbian wedding she is going to on Saturday.
On Thursday Piers takes me for what he describes as ‘a fact finding
trip’ to Bond Street and Harrods.
"This ghastly tat
is just the kind of thing we're not about," he says very loudly in Harrods'
Room of Luxury. A few shoppers look around in surprise. I pretend to be one of them.
"Harrods is what Gucci and Pierre Cardin were in the seventies when they licensed
themselves to anything and everything," explains Piers. "You've got to
guard a brand with your life. After all, it is your life, well, your livelihood
anyway."
We move into another area
of the shop, part of the menswear department and Piers picks up some ties and drops
them.
"Crap display!"
he bellows. Partly to hide my embarrassment I say: "I'm just going to the loo
Piers, shall I see you back here in five minutes?"
"A piss?" he
roars. "Yeah, I could do with one too."
"I think the Gents'
is down there," I whisper. At the urinals Piers continues to lecture me on
luxury goods marketing.
"They're called 'ostentatious
goods'. Part of the attraction is the high price - people feel they're treating
themselves whenever they buy something like that or they just feel good because
they know other people simply can't afford them. It's that old tag line 'reassuringly
expensive.'"
Piers even pees fast -
his jet could cut slate. Mine is a pathetic, old man's trickle by comparison. Piers
finishes, looks down to see if I'm going (yes, I'm going as fast as I can!) and
then spins round to wash his hands.
We sprint out of the shop,
Piers managing to make a couple of telephone calls between the inner and outer set
of doors at the entrance. As we dash further down Knightsbridge we pass a beggar
on the street outside, patterned shawl and skirt blowing in the breeze generated
by the cars, hand extended, face set in the usual contorted mask of desperation
and pleading. A drugged baby lies slumped in her arms. I look away, embarrassed,
uncertain whether to give her money or not.
"See, that is bad
market positioning" says Piers, dialling another number on his mobile. It takes
a moment for me to realise that he talking about the woman we've both seen.
"What?"
"No one is going
to give her money there. They're either hard hearted bastards who don't care or
they've only got plastic on them. She should try the King's Road or somewhere like
that where there are lots of kids around who are into that sort of
but because of the commercial opportunity associated with it that makes me snap
at him: "Except I'm not a brand, I'm your son," I point out. But he has
gone and I'm left shouting to no one across thousands of miles of empty air.
Our fantastically cool and expensive stereo arrives later that
day and a bloke spends a couple of hours installing it, asking if I have any idea
how state of the art this thing is. I say I don't but can I get radio 2 on it? He
doesn't see the joke and talks about watts per channel and digital quality sound
reproduction or something wanky.
Bags of clothes are delivered
from the 2cool stylist and Scarlett and I have some fun trying them on while Piers
is out lunching someone at Le Caprice and Guy is doing the same at the Savoy Grill.
Later a couple of crates of champagne are dropped off which have apparently been
ordered for entertaining in the office. Before I can stop her, Scarlett has decided
that we need some entertainment and she opens one.
But other than that there
is very little to do in the office for the most of the week. I begin to learn something,
though, that all my friends who went to work in offices after school and university
learnt many years ago: the art of paper shuffling and time killing. Scarlett and
I go for organic juices and Shiatsu massages and even spent a couple of hours shopping
on Wednesday with our 2cool credit cards: a Hugo Boss shirt for me and an outfit
from a shop called Sceeech! for a lesbian wedding she is going to on Saturday.
On Thursday Piers takes me for what he describes as ‘a fact finding
trip’ to Bond Street and Harrods.
"This ghastly tat
is just the kind of thing we're not about," he says very loudly in Harrods'
Room of Luxury. A few shoppers look around in surprise. I pretend to be one of them.
"Harrods is what Gucci and Pierre Cardin were in the seventies when they licensed
themselves to anything and everything," explains Piers. "You've got to
guard a brand with your life. After all, it is your life, well, your livelihood
anyway."
We move into another area
of the shop, part of the menswear department and Piers picks up some ties and drops
them.
"Crap display!"
he bellows. Partly to hide my embarrassment I say: "I'm just going to the loo
Piers, shall I see you back here in five minutes?"
"A piss?" he
roars. "Yeah, I could do with one too."
"I think the Gents'
is down there," I whisper. At the urinals Piers continues to lecture me on
luxury goods marketing.
"They're called 'ostentatious
goods'. Part of the attraction is the high price - people feel they're treating
themselves whenever they buy something like that or they just feel good because
they know other people simply can't afford them. It's that old tag line 'reassuringly
expensive.'"
Piers even pees fast -
his jet could cut slate. Mine is a pathetic, old man's trickle by comparison. Piers
finishes, looks down to see if I'm going (yes, I'm going as fast as I can!) and
then spins round to wash his hands.
We sprint out of the shop,
Piers managing to make a couple of telephone calls between the inner and outer set
of doors at the entrance. As we dash further down Knightsbridge we pass a beggar
on the street outside, patterned shawl and skirt blowing in the breeze generated
by the cars, hand extended, face set in the usual contorted mask of desperation
and pleading. A drugged baby lies slumped in her arms. I look away, embarrassed,
uncertain whether to give her money or not.
"See, that is bad
market positioning" says Piers, dialling another number on his mobile. It takes
a moment for me to realise that he talking about the woman we've both seen.
"What?"
"No one is going
to give her money there. They're either hard hearted bastards who don't care or
they've only got plastic on them. She should try the King's Road or somewhere like
that where there are lots of kids around who are into that sort of
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