Visiting the "really quite rich though not necessarily famous" involves a healthy hike: in order not to risk sinking as low as public transport the wannabes simply ordered the city council not to construct any metro or bus stops in the zone. Whilst they don't quite live as high up on the hill as the "really far too rich and quite probably famous", they are still high enough for the wind to feel ever so slightly cooler.
Here the convenience of high street chains has been abandoned in favour of obscure and surprisingly somewhat pokey boutiques. Displayed on glossy headless mannequins are street-long parades of almost-not faux fur coats with random tassels, definitely faux Eton jackets and miniscule lacy, baby-pink ballerina dresses. The impracticalities of such an existence are embraced by beady-eyed ladies who patrol the local park with ugly, overpriced designer dogs trained to sniff out any wandering, trespassing vagabonds. This probably explains the chorus of yaps as I walk past. A select number of people below the “standard stipend” are expected to be seen out of doors from time to time: the starched white uniform ought however to be worn and a brisk pace should be maintained in order to prevent instant excommunication to the immigrant barrios way down below. An occasional insurgent slips through the net: a toothless sinewy old man whizzes past the poodles, gleefully intoxicated by the speed of his rollerblades, his spiky red T-shirt billowing rebelliously; a not quite yummy mummy tosses a crisp packet into the gutter; a blazered teen with knee-high socks crouches behind a tree coughing a cigarette.
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