AS I SAW IT

An account of Harrods

SALLY VINCENT

Is it mere innocent affection, I wonder, that when they are together with their falling arches the stalwart liege-men and women who comprise the staff of Harrods refer to their emporium as H-rods. Might they intend the explosive redolence? Could it possibly be that these atavistic souls, more brashly middle class even than those they wait upon, entertain the suspicion that their establish- ment represents in some way the Ultimate Deterrent; or that a kind of forlorn fall-out has been tumbling since private perusing arrangements were extended beyond those traditionally afforded the reigning monarch to include such unprecedented causes as Beatles and paraplegics? Or perhaps, in a last surge of chauvinism, they are pretending to themselves that the great ship is at least going down with a bang, while the actual whimper is as unmistakable as the holes in the Wilton.

Old institutions die hard and ungracefully, but one might be forgiven the hope that Santa Claus could be among the last to go. At Harrods, this year, his wane is dolefully evident to anyone in search of Christmas cheer on the pavements of Knightsbridge. True, the poster in all the windows gives the assurance that this is the Land of Father Christmas. But he, dear fellow, is a bit of a faggot, resembling 'nothing so much as a spectacularly angular bearded lady with a thing about wearing red knickerbockers and encouraging at least one bunny-coated fellow to bound within the heat-blasted portals, counter-tenoring his intention to leap straight to Toys and sit on his lap if he's half as cute in the flesh. Even the reindeer is hornless, a pale fawn with a lewd clockwork wink who bestrides a mound of merchandise wearing labels, Box, Money Box, Musical Box, Lamp, Telephone, Jar, since, like items in a wolf cub bring and buy sale they tend to defy immedi- ate identification.

Inside the store you are deprived of in- formation as to the nature of the goods, but you are baked to distraction instead, like the tweed and ermine matron on a collision

'But if you were another Utile girl which one would you like?'

course to the exit, sending out cries of 'Manners' like a wittily programmed radar system. Perhaps, as proved by the proprietors of New York restaurants, the idea is that people will rapidly relieve themselves of money if their bodies are uncomfortably overheated. What other inducements the Harrodian government has dreamed up is difficult to ascertain. There is a formidable acreage, certainly, of what they describe as 'Gorgeous Gifts', a glittering assembly of items suggestive of the props from some long forgotten comic opera.

This silver-plated, life-size baby seal has lovely glass eyes and a hinged head that opens up to reveal a cylinder into which you may place a bottle of champagne. And this, for only £25 more, bringing it up to £160, is a ship's figurehead, newly painted. While here we have a wastepaper basket cunningly disguised as a leather breastplate for £142 and not far away a big glass cockerel knocked down from £95 to £75 on account, presumably, of the fact that his tail feathers are chipped. And if you can't afford the Italian figurine depicting, in intolerable detail, two old men sharing a joke for £60, you could get along with the Ku Klux Klan member, slickly worked in a substance called porcelanas for El 1 lOs or one of the cellu- loid cartons containing dressed dolls, which are even cheaper.

Even the locked glass cases are monu- ments of indiscretion, where precious min- erals and a sixty million year old fish fossil have been lumped together with cheap venetian glass paperweights and, most des- picable, gilded sea shells.

Mrs George Bernard Shaw's unkind re- mark that Harrods was a fairground was surely prophetic. For she did not actually witness the imitation fir tree strung with fairy lights, or the aerosol cans of 2 Tix instant snow (£40 and six and six respectively), nor did the silver from the silver balls come off on her gloves. Indeed, she must have died before

she knew that Harrods or anyone else sold, in quantity, objects called Carnivalboms, guaranteed harmless cardboard drums de- signed to erupt Hong Kong trash into the air and so make your party a supreme success. And unless, as seems unlikely, she ever went to a gangster's funeral, she can never have seen such a profusion of brazen, imitation flowers as decorate the Harrods' Christmas crackers, which contain goods admitted- on the box to be partly foreign. At 145 shillings the half dozen, the foreign parts may well be purest hash.

No doubt we get the Harrods we deserve and if we come away, stultified by excess, without making a purchase to celebrate the Lord's Birthday because we could not visu- alise a future, let alone a future where possession of a flock-covered musical box . might be imperative, then we have only our- selves to blame. We must learn intensity of purpose as exhibited by the Serious Christ- mas Shopper herself. She held in her hand,

for all to see, a piece of paper on which she has listed her Christmas intentions, the names, gifts and departments, and precisely how much she proposes to spend. Over a

humped, furry shoulder I was able to learn that Nanny is to get something from Cos- metics up to thirty-five shillings; Mother a handbag under £8; Robert a book up to fifteen shillings; Julian a ditto up to ditto and Mrs Price, God help her, is down for a Boots voucher.

Come to that, god help the poor litle rich kids brought along to the Paradise of Toys to try their very best to find something to enchant them.

`It's all the bloody same', remarked a boy of about six to a younger companion, 'as it was last bloody year'. Later I heard this ob- servant child's mother exhorting him to 'concentrate' and 'try again over here' be- cause 'surely there must be something you would like Father Christmas to bring'.

Beneath the canopy of dark silver branches, oppressive to anyone over the age of two, middle class parents agonise over the problem of equipping their children with de- lights they have not already experienced. A young woman, in despair as deep as she will ever know, replaces £29 lOs worth of doll in its box and appeals to the father of her child. 'She's got one almost exactly the same'. He makes himself responsible for the reply, 'Maybe she won't notice'. At the puppet counter two desperate people ask their off- * a bit of a faggot spring, 'But if you were another little girl which one would you like?'

Nobody seems to have anything but in- difference or an aching wallet. But what can a little boy want when he already has cars and boats and trains and guns and rifles and space-man's sets? And all the little girls, similarly following the dictates of society's ambitions for them who already have enough dolls and dolls' houses and prams and cots and miniature washing machines, carpet sweepers, cooking stoves, stainless steel sinks and refrigerators? Nothing left for them to learn, perhaps, unless - some enterprising manufacturer makes them a divorce lawyers' kit.

There is no sign of Santa Claus. It's a big place and of course he might be doing a stint in bedding, or even in groceries where his good nature would be invaluable for dealing with the lady demanding a pair of hams. A matching pair of hams. But he is not in Toys where he might be appreciated. He is expected though. His throne is there. painted silver, with a blue velvet seat, all ready. And over one arm his sack is slung, a felt affair with a colourful design on one side and empty cardboard boxes within. Marked up at-£2 9s.