Harrods 

Enter entrance 8. Bromford Street. A security guard to your right. Grand doors right ahead. Your eyes finally adjust to the dim, yellow lighting and you finally focus on the big signs that smack you in the face: Dior, Tom Ford, Balenciaga. All no longer merely counters in the makeup department of the high-end mall each with their own fleet of snooty staff. They were big, big brands daring you to look them in the eye. 

You gulp, but forge on. Finally you spot Laduree. A spot of familiarity. Thank God, you murmur. You take short quick steps, following the signs that seem to be there for the sole purpose of confusing you further. If Harrods is anything, it is a maze. A bloody money-sucking, consumerism-encouraging maze. 

You get to Laduree, select a box of six then stop in your tracks as the cashier is counting your change. That happiness was shortlived. 

You change your course and head out the front door again after much navigation. Thankfully the Golden Arches are there in the near distance. At least they never disappoint. You speedwalk across two roads and finally walk into M’s warm embrace. A comforting smell and warmth settles around. 

Thank God your adventure for the day has come to a pause. 

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