Last week I passed by Fenwick on New Bond Street. I’d forgotten that it was closing down, but there she was with days left to the end of her 130- year tenure, propping up the corner in a rather sad way with giant 70 per cent off banners blaring from the once enchanting Christmas windows. A previously classy store flogging off its merch at a brutal discount.
Peeking inside, all that was left of the once-bustling accessories floor was a bleak-looking long shelf lined with dozens of brown faux fur trapper hats. Who knows what stockroom crevice they were dragged up from. I haven’t stepped into Fenwick for years, not even for the loo. Which is perhaps part of the problem.
