A Bray of Sloanes

I think the collective noun for a group of Sloane Rangers is a 'bray' of sloanes, isn't it?

I only ask because I went down to Chelsea to pick up the Special One from her new job at the weekend. She was cashing up and locking up; all those things associated with being the assistant manager at a posh fashion boutique. Needless to say, she's loving it: meeting targets, impressing bosses and customers alike. She's at a posh London hotel for a management meeting today. I'm told there's champagne afterwards.

But, my goodness, we're not in Cricklewood any more, Toto. Notable differences about Chelsea:

• Barely a black face in sight. Not a single kebab shop.
• I passed about 20 phoneboxes before seeing a prostitute calling card. And, while in Cricklewood they're cheap photocopied slips of paper, usually green or pink, with pictures of topless women with their nipples blacked out, the cards in Chelsea phoneboxes are classy, glossy affairs showing a discreet beknickered hip or fluttered eyelash. It's like comparing Harper's magazine with the Limerick Leader.
• The cars, the cut of people's clothes, etc, obviously.
• The buses (of course) are clean and fresh-smelling. They're a more spacious model too, with an attendent down the back handing out paper towels, aftershave and breath mints.
• People walk far slower in Chelsea than in Cricklewood. I don't know whether it's because you can be sure no-one is going to have the bad manners to barge past you if you walk two abreast, or that riches buy a slower pace of life, but while walking down to the Special One's shop, I constantly found myself stuck behind a logjam of expensive coats.

And the whole damn street is dedicated to conspicuous consumption; expensive clothes, furniture shops (is there a posh word for 'furniture shop'?), wine-sellers (no mere off-licence for Chelsea, you know) and the kind of restaurant that uses a recruitment agency to hire waiters. Now, you know I'm the type of person who thinks that anyone who spends £3,000 on a pair of shoes should be taxed until they squeak, but I did find myself momentarily envious. What must it be like to live somewhere like that, or, more to the point, to be able to afford to live somewhere like that? To go out and buy yourself something absolutely luxurious - not just cool or stylish, but luxurious, silk/diamonds/truffles/yacht-level luxury - just because you want it? You can see why some people value it so highly. Still, it would make it very hard to be so self-righteous all the time, wouldn't it?

It's nice for a holiday, but the Special One and I were glad to get back to Cricklewood. We'll be doing the lottery this weekend though...