The strange irony of these banners for London Fashion Week is that they preside over Oxford Street, a street with more holes in it than a slab of Switzerland’s finest. The horror! From the moment I get off the bus at New Oxford Street to the second I step into my office about half-way between the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Circus, I am confronted by a sea of construction in the forms of Cross Rail, building refits, knockdowns and rebuilds, and Le Perfume, the discount perfumery selling imitation scents which has yet to find a permanent home (although I do miss the spruiker’s baritone now that he’s in between commissions). The only high (or low) point is the allure of Primark.
It’s glowing TV screens regard the street with an Orwellian air. To be quite honest, it’s downright freaky.
But the majority of the street is not like this. It is far, far worse. Kind of apocalyptic, it has all the joys of an X-box game and perhaps I should be thankful for this since it will be the only time it will be this way, soon to be filled to the brim with shops we all know and love, beckoning us to enter with their swish lighting, boppy jangles and comforting air conditioning.