Confessions of a (poor) shopaholic

Hello. My name is Emma.







I am a poor shopaholic.







I have explored the deepest regions of the shopping meccas they call Harrods and Paris. One, I went to willingly. The other fell upon me like a house falling on the Wicked Witch of the East. There was a time when Vogue and InStyle were my bibles. Thick magazines weighed down my backpack and I made sure to read them cover to cover. Every month. Without fail.







My education in fashion had begun.







Once upon a time, I craved Guess Jeans, Esprit clothing and Vuarnet t-shirts. I rocked the Ray-Ban glasses and went through a period of surf culture. Over time, my tastes became more expensive. Esprit turned into Burberry. Vuarnet turned into Paul Frank and Harajuku. Even my eyeglasses became an extension of this obsession. Versace, Dior, Vera Wang... they became the couture that insurance paid for. Flip Flops: Havaianas. My summer dream would be the flip flops with the Swarovski crystals. But... I'd trip and lose the crystals immediately. Waste of money... but it would be awesome to have blingy flippity flops.





My opinion of Harrods had been influenced by my (not so fashionable or hip) parents who called Harrods a "tacky place". All I had to go on was the Green/Gold color scheme and the fact that they had a large food hall. Little did I know... it held a majority of the world's fashion secrets in stalls and nooks all over the store.





Walking into Harrods on British Mothering Day (exactly like Mother's Day in the US) was inSANE. Much like Americans, the Brits rush into fancy places to get mom perfume, sweets or couture to show their appreciation. It was like an ant farm that had crashed onto the floor. People milling around all over the places, turning heel then walking another direction. They had a guard at the door and a woman who was handing out maps. MAPS! Oy!





Lizzie was right. Harrods is set up like a casino. There are tons of rooms and misleading signs that force you to travel like lost lemmings all over the casino floor... or er... store. Our map did no good. It failed to give us true direction and only gave us generic names of more sinister floors: Womenswear (translation: a glittering floor of famous designers seen at Fashion Week that cost more than my salary), Stationary and Gifts (Translation: gifts for rich peeps), Childrenswear (Translation: Dolce&Gabbana for Scout? Um... no $124 tee for you) and the all encompassing Food Hall (Translation: mmm... chocolate. Oh wait... that one truffle costs £10 ? I'll pass! Thanks!) . It didn't look as if Harrods was hurting in the face of the faltering ecomomy. Every single branded stall had a minimum of 2 people. It was crazy! Then again, people who are ready to spend gads of money have no time to wait. You know... because time is money.