Harrods v Fortnum

Good day, my little pom-poms!

Just back from a lovely breakfast at The Wolseley. The air feels wonderfully Autumnal. Still on a high from Andy Murray's historic win at the US Open. What a match? God loves a trier and, my word, he certainly has tried. The first of many one hopes.

It's not all good news, though. My buttocks are killing me! Miss B could very well be a little too young and energetic for me. However, she really is the most diverting creature and she certainly keeps me entertained.

Sybarite that I am, one can occasionally overdose on luxury. I popped in to Harrods during the week. It's been yonks. Was looking for a small gift to keep the Duchess sweet. I didn't stay long. There were so many arabs that one felt like a tourist in downtown Riyadh!

The once-hallowed food halls now feel commercialised and touristy. I passed through the Egyptian-themed monstrosities to the furniture department and was there confronted by sights that would make a Premier League footballer vomit. Maybe time for a coffee?

Unfortunately, every single cafe was so full of arabs that one felt alien and rather intrusive. I really don't mind the arabs coming to London but perhaps they might show some imagination in where they go? Finally, The Diana & Dodi Memorial is utterly tasteless and has no place in Harrods. Apparently, it was a condition of sale to the new owners that it remained there. Pity. I used to love Harrods.

Anyway, I beat a hasty retreat and asked my driver to convey me to Fortnum at the double! If Harrods was lost it would indeed be sad in a historic sense. However, if Fortnum & Mason were to close I would be bereft! It's just so utterly, utterly English. Large but not too large. Its thick red carpets and wood panelling give warmth and character. The teas are unparalleled. The foods and condiments are absolutely exquisite and it's never, ever colonised by arab tourists! I bought the Duchess a beautiful silk scarf and some lovely perfume (following a few heavy hints). Couldn't resist buying Miss B a large French saucisson to provoke her filthy laugh!

Then on to Jermyn Street. Now, as I stated earlier, one can overdose on luxury. Jermyn Street is the most elegant and charming street in London. It has just about everything that any man of substance could possibly dream of. There, one is treated with mere politeness by that increasingly rare breed: the English salesman.

Absolutely no bowing and scraping, no champagne on a silver salver, no extracting all your personal details for marketing purposes. I love it! You see, if the truth be told we English find the whole 'luxury' experience a bit embarrassing. Take Berry Bros on St James's. If LVMH took over it they'd cover the wood-panelled walls and creaky floor in Italian marble and build a VIP room. One would be served by some crazed Italian girl with too much make-up and too little Inglese. Balls to that!

Some of us prefer a whisper of luxury rather than a shout. I'm afraid it all comes down to class. There are few who understand the true meaning of understated elegance and hospitality. Savile Row and Jermyn Street do it so brilliantly.

Now, I'm off to take a long, hot bath to relieve my tired old bot!

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The Duke of Snarlborough x