The tall, dark and handsome Ranger leaned closer to his companion and whispered: "Now what would you say that is, Kevin? A squid, a kingfisher, or a shaved beaver? Are there any shaved beavers in the swimming pools of Harrods?"
"Tis not a bird, whatever else it may be, my Lord," said Kevin. "It has four limbs, dives as badly as you do, and is wearing a particularly loud pair of pink shorts which are no longer fashionable in polite Rondorian society."

The two Rondorians peered down into the murky water. A little white head appeared at the far end wearing a tattered yachting cap at a jaunty angle, and clutching a magnificent feather boa in it's long fingers.
"I have the little sod at arrow point," said Kevin grimly. "Shall I not shoot, Boss? For wearing such unfashionable threads in this place, death is our law."
"Wait," commanded Furrowmore. "This is a tough cookie. What have you to say about it, Fido? Why should we spare him? The creature is altogether without any fashion sense, and quite unaware how offensive his clothes are to an aesthete like yourself. Yet the wizard Randolf, who is no mean authority on haute couture, bid you not to slay him when you had the chance. He also forbade Top Shop to rub him out, and they flog the coolest gear in town. But if I allow this ill dressed rascal to wander about looking like a total prat, or to join you later, and be caught by Oiks, and forced to wear flared trousers with turnups, I may never live it down. He must be slain, or taken to a gentleman's outfitters immediately."

Fido leaned forward. The rim of the pool was flat, but as smooth and slippery as his hand-made silk shirt. His descent would have been impossible if there had been any moonlight, for he would have been distracted by the forty-two carat emerald he wore on his right hand. Then again, he might have been blinded by the light of the glittering, diamond studded watchband on his left. He halted, listening intently. At first he could hear no sound but the unceasing rush of the multi-level fountain behind him. Then presently he heard, not far ahead, a hissing murmur. "Fishnet, nice fisssshnet tights. Jam Spongee's ugly face has vanished, my precious, at last, yesss. Now we can wear fishnet in peace. No, not in peace, precious. The Cocktail Ring is lost. My beautiful cubic zirconia, all gone. Bingo stole it! Then dirty hobbits wore it to a garden party. Thieves! We hates them. Fisshnet, nice fissshnet tightses. Makes us ssexsy and sooo ssslinky. We'll show them, my precious, yes, we will."
So it went on, as unceasing as the fountain, only interrupted by a faint noise of Lord Furrowmore breaking wind.

Fido shivered with pity and disgust. He wished it would stop and that he need never see those dreadful tights again. Kevin was not far behind. He could creep back and ask him to shoot Hokum.
Suddenly Fido was startled by the flash of multicolored sequins on a black satin corset, worn backwards so it laced in front. The white cream foundation that Hokum used and the bright green eye shadow glowed even more brightly.
"I'll teach the Robbitses to steal my cocktail ring, my preciousss," he hissed menacingly, his suspender belt holding up a pair of thigh high fishnet stockings with back seams.

Much later, after Hokum has rejoined the two Robbits, the three of them approach the entrance to Gaultiers Lair. Now read on...

They passed on, Hokum in front, the pale moonlight glittering palely on his fishnet tights, running in little blue rivers up his thin spindly legs, across his shocking pink satin tank-top, and illuminating the cheap sequins on his velvet choker. There was no sound. Unless it was the faint rustle of his shot silk speedos rubbing against his crotch, or the almost inaudible squeak of his KIKE (TM) supergrip trainers on the torn and weathered rock. Jam Spongee sniffed the air.
"Ugh! That perfume!" he said. "It's getting stronger and stronger."
"S-sorry, nice Robbits," apologised Hokum, "I think I may have overdone the underarm deodorant a bit."
"No, not that!" snapped Sam, "The bloody stink from that cave up ahead, you pitiful slinker!"
"Ach..sss, Nassty, rude Robbitses, always complaining about poor Smeggle. Jealous they is, oh yes, we knows it. We knows what the fat little Robbit is after doesn't we, precious? Oh yesss. But he won't get it will he? Oh, no, SHE will see to that..."
"Shut up!" said Jam.
"Well I can 'nose' it, Jam, my lad," said Fido, pulling the collar of his Armani jacket higher. "That cave stinks to high heaven."
"This is the way in." said Hokum obsequiously. "This is the entrance to the Mall."

He did not dare speak it's name: 'Gaultier's Lair' Out of it came a stench, not the cloying sweetness of rancid No.5, nor yet the heavy odour of fake Opium, but a foul reek, as if Brute Apres Rasage had been mixed with Nina Ricci and Hugo Boss, into an overpowering Eau de Toilette only a cheap hooker would dare to wear.
"Is it the only way, Smeggle?" asked Fido.
"Yes, yes," answered Hokum. "Yes, we must go this way to get cool new threads".
"Do you mean to say you've been in this hole before?" said Sam. "Phew, but with your dress sense I don't suppose you mind cheap scent."
Gollum's sequins glittered menacingly as he whirled around to face the fat Robbit. "He doesn't know what we minds, does he precious? No he doesn't", he hissed. "Give Smeggle the cheap, stinky perfume. Give him the nice Robbitses cast off hand-me-downs. Smeggle can wear them. Smeggle gets the laddered tights Master won't wear. But we'll get even, won't we precious. Oh yes, we will! Come! It's the only way in."
"And what makes the smell, I wonder," said Jam Spongee. "It's like - well, I wouldn't like to say. The bargain-basement perfumery department of Woolworths, I'll warrant, with a hundred bottles of their cheapest scent in it."
"Well", said Fido, flicking an imaginary speck of dust from his designer chinos, "Woolworths or no, if it's the only way to get some decent new duds, we must take it." Drawing a deep breath, they passed inside...

Suddenly they were bathed in a lurid red light. Every item on the racks, and in the display cases showed up in the most unflattering shades of rusty orange. They walked, as it were, in a red mist of veritable darkness that brought blindness not only to the eyes, but also to the mind, so that even the memory of tasteful colours and classic forms faded out of thought. Hokum had gone in first, and seemed to be only a few steps ahead. After a time, their senses became duller, and they groped and stumbled into a rack of ... something foul. Suddenly, terrifyingly long and sinuous tentacles shot out, gripping both Fido and Jam. Forcibly removed from their worn-one-too-many-days, but otherwise still stylish, togs, they grasped for the nearest bits of things to cover themselves. Fido's instinct for the cutting edge pulled him toward a marked down GAP yellow lace evening gown with pink, plastic accents. Quickly he donned it, shuddering as he caught his reflection in the mirror. "Oh bugger, Jam... Is my bottom really this big?"

Jam Spongee, left with nothing but last year's Dolce and Gabbana day wear line, which was sooo five minutes ago, had come back as retro, and was now unsaleable at any price, got really catty and replied in a soft, drawling voice:
"Oh, well, the thing is, Fido, darling, I had thought that gown rather flattered your behind... it really does downplay it." As though Jam's cattiness had summoned her, the Gaultier appeared - dressed in a cat-suit made from, of all things, purple boa-constrictor-spotted fun fur. Her accessories included an alligator skin hand bag, studded with neon green rhinestones and yards of swirling pink chiffon trailing from her twelve, waving tentacles. Suddenly the Gaultier was between Jam and his master. Either she did not see his sapphire and platinum tie-pin, or she avoided him as the bearer of the only truly fashionable accessory in that loathsome emporium of mediocrity, and fixed all her fiendish French malice on one prey - Fido, who bereft of even the smallest scrap of stylish apparel, rushed heedlessly into Menswear, quite unaware of his peril.
Swiftly he ran, but Gaultier, wearing the very latest aeroshock olympic trainers, was swifter; in a few leaps she would have him in her clutches for a fitting. Jam gasped, and gathered all his remaining pride to shout a warning, but his cry was stifled. A long clammy hand reeking of Old Spice went over his mouth and another ripped the seat of his Armani Cavalry twills, while something soft and chiffony wrapped itself around his leg. Taken off his guard, he toppled backwards into the arms of his attacker.

"Got him!" hissed Hokum in his ear. "At last, my precious, we've got him, yeshhh, the nasssty, unfashionable hobbit. We takes this one. She'll get the other. Oh yeshh, Gaultier will get him, not Smeggle. He promised; he won't dress master at all. But he's got his hands on you, you ugly little tramp!" He spat on Jam's priceless crocodile skin shoulder bag. Fury at this insult to the finest product of Italian craftsmanship, and desperation at the delay when his master was in deadly peril of being fitted with...with... an off-the-peg evening suit, leant to Jam a strength and violence far beyond anything Hokum had expected from this loud and sartorially challenged Robbit. Not even Hokum himself could have whipped out a pink chiffon scarf faster, or tied it off more adeptly in a fetching double-bow around his victim's scrawny neck. His hold on Jam's mouth slipped, and Jam ducked and lunged forward, trying to tear away from the foul smelling grip on his Egyptian cotton cravat. His bag was still on his left arm, hanging by it's sequined strap, and desperately he swung it at Hokum's head.

But Hokum was too seasoned an old couturier to fall for that trick. His long arm shot out, jangling with a dozen Cartier pearl bracelets, and he grabbed Jam's hand-tooled Buffalo hide belt. Slowly and relentlessly he twisted it, tightening his grip until Jam's boxers threatened to crush the only jewels his sweet Rosie had ever cherished, until, with a cry of pain, Jam dropped his bag, and let go of the scarf. So Jam did what no Gentlerobbit should ever do. He kicked Hokum in the groin. Hokum fell over with Jam on top and received the solid brass buckle of the sturdy Robbit's belt in his eye. A sharp hiss came out of him and his hold on Jam's neck weakened. Jam tore himself away and struggled to his feet. Picking up his shoulder bag, he whirled it round his head and brought it down on Hokum's arm, scattering seed-pearls in all directions. With a squeal Hokum let go, and then Jam waded in with blow after blow, until the handle of his bag broke.

That was enough for Hokum. Grabbing an expensive feather boa off someone's neck, or stealing hats at Ascot was an old game of his, and he had seldom failed in it. But this time, misled by appallingly bad taste, he had made the mistake of gloating before he had his hands firmly on the goods. Everything had gone wrong with his beautiful plan since that loud sapphire and platinum tie-pin had so unexpectedly appeared in the darkness of the Gents Evening Wear department. And now he was face to face with a furious enemy, with little less fashion sense then himself. This fight was not for him. Before Jam could stop him, he grabbed what remained of the Trash Bag evening gowns and Sam's lovely pink chiffon scarf, and legged it as fast as his fishnet covered tights would let him. With his ruined Italian leather bag in his hand, Jam went after him.

For a moment he had forgotten everything but his outraged fashion sense, and the desire to see Hokum wearing nothing more than a fluorescent green shell-suit with matching polyvinyl accessories. But Hokum was gone. Then, as his eyes focused on a loud display of second-hand prom frocks standing limply before him in all their depressing tackiness, like a belle on the cat walk who hears her knicker-elastic snap, the thought of Fido and the foul Gaultier smote him like a dose of rancid patchouli oil. He spun round, and rushed madly up the aisle, calling loudly "Don't let her dress you, master. You'll never be able to show yourself in public again!" But he was too late.

So far Hokum's evil plot had succeeded.

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