The side entrance to Harrods had steps and, as I struggled with Kate’s stroller, a young man in morning coat and gray-striped trousers rushed out to me.
“Oh, thanks so much, I was having a bit of a—”
“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t let you in.”
“I can’t let you into ‘Arrods,” he said, blocking my path politely but firmly. “I’m sorry, sir, but cut down jeans are not allowed in ‘Arrods, sir.”
“You must be joking.”
“It’s the ‘Arrods dress code. Sir.”
“A dress code? In a store?”
“This is priceless.” Frances was amazed but, unlike me, she was smiling.
Dracula, and What We Think of Him
2 months ago