Look left. Look right. Look dead ahead. Arrrgh! The fashion clones are taking over the town.
Jack Wills is stalking me.
I was minding my own business when he came round a corner, his name emblazoned on the front of his T-shirt like a narcissistic homage. On the next street over, the clever sod has doubled back. I saw him from the rear this time where his moniker was also splashed. The guy sure loves himself.
In the town centre I passed him again. This time he’d changed his appearance slightly but it was obviously just a bad disguise because the name on the T-shirt gave him away. Not very bright.
But after the fourth guy I got seriously spooked and, like a tweaked out junkie, started to look around at everyone I passed with a suspicious glare. I was onto him, yet somehow wished my baseball cap was foil-lined. What had I done? Why was he out to get me? And how could he be everywhere at once?
Luckily I fetched the shopping and escaped, hotfooting it home while dodging the ubiquitous Mr Wills. But on the way back I was also astounded at how many members of staff Paul’s Boutique has. Hundreds of ‘em. All I can surmise is that this talk of a deep recession is fearmongering, because the company are clearly hiring teenage girls aggressively.
Unless they’re just cheap labour.