I traveled on the underground into town for speed, and went into the closest department store to the station,
the same one where I’d purchased my laptop. It was 5:20 p.m., and the store would close in less than an hour.
Womenswear was on the first floor (when did Ladieswear become Womenswear? I wondered)
and I took the escalator, being unable to find the stairs. The shop floor was vast, and I decided to request assistance.
The first woman I saw was matronly, and did not seem well placed to dispense fashion advice.
The second was in her late teens or early twenties, and therefore too callow to advise me.
The third, in the manner of Goldilocks, was just right—around my age, well groomed, sensible-looking.
I approached with caution. “Excuse me, I wonder if I could possibly ask for your assistance?” I said.
She stopped folding sweaters and turned to me, smiling insincerely.
“I’m attending a concert at a fashionable venue, and I wondered if you might assist me with the selection of an appropriate ensemble?”
Her smile broadened and looked more genuine. “Well, we do offer a personal shopper service,” she said.
“I could make you an appointment, if you like?” “Oh no,” I said, “it’s for this evening.
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