When I was about 26 and lived in a very re-saleable tiny box flat on High Street Kensington, I lived above a row of shops – French Connection, Massimo Dutti, Esprit… and something else that kept changing.
The awful glare from the sequins in French Connection kept me out of that shithole, but there was something else more subtly off-putting about Massimo Dutti. It always looked from the outside like the most awful kind of depressing, like, non–shop for Italian hookers who didn’t know they were hookers. Maybe a front? Like a Mafia front for gormless Italian hookers? Based in High St Ken?
But then yesterday I brushed off my passport and went all the way to Chelsea to meet Sophie, who is the nicest, kindest and most lovely CEO of Trotters, (Spikers nearly crashed their website buying these babies)… and I’m not just saying that because she gave me a huge discount at the till on the 400 items I snatched from the Trotter shelves [more soon] … and it so happened that I was early and stumbled upon a Massimo Dutti.
And I went in and I was overwhelmed with a feeling that one occasionally gets in a shop, (which is a good sign), where you want to call the RAF to request an emergency airstrike on your wardrobe and get one of the charming girls to kit you out head to toe in Massimo Dutti.
What I’m trying to say is that Massimo Dutti have got really top lifestyle-basics game at the moment. I had to run out of the shop before I bought 40 leather jackets, a perfect jean and 25 navy sweaters.
Here’s what I particularly liked: