Fred R. Conrad/The New York Times
Years ago I spent five lonely, weepy, sleepless, amazing months in the great black pit that is London. I spent way too much on rent, searched in vain for low-fat cheese, haunted the theatres of the West End with a desperate need to find something positive about the dreary British capital, and escaped to Paris whenever it all got too gloomy.
With all my sterling being chucked into the bottomless pockets of the greasy estate agents who leased my apartment, Paris began to look much too dauntingly expensive for my increasingly frequent need to escape. Soon crossing the channel transformed into crossing Edgware Road as I began to flee to Selfridges and blow thirty quid on YSL eyeshadow, coffee, and chocolate chip scones. Eventually even that got too expensive, and no longer could I ignore the siren song of that fabled shopping phenomenon, High Street - of which Topshop is queen.
I have long since escaped to the States to explore our own brand of depressing metropolis, but that wily huntress Topshop has finally tracked me down. I hear its call. I fear it won't be long before Daisy and I are drawn to our doom like moths to a flame. With our powers of rationalization, we can't resist for long. O Topshop, sing of my empty wallet and voluminous orange gingham sundress. Sing of the downfall of careful budgeting and rational purchases! Sing, sing of the triumph of fashion over reason, as the galley of my finances sinks into the wine-dark sea...