Abercrombie & Fitch

Dear Sirs,

I entered one of your stores this weekend whilst on a shopping trip with my dear lady-wife Agatha. The trip was principally so she could invest in a pair of ‘control pants’ from Marks & Spencer that she had seen advertised on an abhorrent piece of programming called Loose Women. The premise of the show appears to be a group of wizened and barren old hags publicly discussing their cervical smear tests and their teenage sons’ masturbatory habits. Because we are going to the local bridge club’s annual charity dinner next month, she understandably wants to ensure she looks her best, although personally I can’t understand how a few yards to elasticated girdle will make one jot of difference to her womanly bulk.

I digress. I am actually writing not to furnish you with the details of Agatha’s undergarments but to lodge a complaint about the state of your store. As its exterior presented a welcome change from the glaring bright lights of other emporia, I assumed its target demographic was not the trendy young whippersnappers of ‘Generation Y’, but the older, better-dressed generation. Lamentably, the assumptions of this poor, misguided old fool were wildly inaccurate.

As I stepped over the threshold, I was appalled that there was no emergency lighting in operation as there had obviously been some sort of power cut. This posed a terrible heath hazard and I consider myself fortunate that I didn’t trip and break my neck. Not only was the entire store swathed in darkness, but the air was so heavily fragranced I felt like I was entering an opium den or a whore’s boudoir. I was greeted by a dead-eyed blonde who seemed to be there on some sort of Care in the Community programme; the poor girl was clearly soft in the head as she seemed to have forgotten her blouse. Despite her sad state of intellectual incapacity, she flitted from room to room so stealthily I never even saw her move. Indeed, it seemed almost as though the entire store was filled with her clones; every time I turned around she was there. It was most unnerving.

It soon became apparent that Abercrombie & Fitch is not the kind of store designed for discerning gentlemen such as myself. After blundering deeper in the labyrinth of the store, eyes watering with the fumes and ears near bleeding with the constant thump of mindless bass, I finally espied daylight and made my escape.

Frankly, I’m grateful I lived to tell the tale. Your store is a tasteless death trap and even if it were the sort of place I would normally frequent, it was near-impossible to find anything as it was so sunken in gloom and darkness. At one point I picked up a garment thinking it was a pair of formal black trousers when in fact it was a red and pink tartan brassiere. Quite a difference, I think you’ll agree!

I do hope you’ll take my comments on board and rectify the issues – of which there are many – immediately.

Yours outragedly,

Derek Haselhurst-Horton