I've been seeing spots for the past few days. Ever since I decided to write about them they have appeared before my eyes big black ones on a breezy white chiffon shirt worn by one of our interns; little polka dots embedded in a velvet pencil skirt on a femme fataleish train passenger; jaunty white ones on a red scarf tied around the collar of a dapper old man at the bus stop. Spots, it seems, are integral to all of our wardrobes, always natty but, depending on size and colour, as loud or as discreet as we want them to be. A spot can be fun in a jolly, eccentric way, as Moschino, Paul Smith and Boden have all known for some time. Then there is the bold, cultish, pleasingly poncey spot, the Comme des Garons spot, much loved by graphic designers and architects, the understated status symbol of the thinking fashion follower. (To this day I remain annoyed that I never managed to get hold of one of those 2008 Comme des Garons for H spotted cardigans. To this day.) But this month spots have moved into the world of luxury.
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