16:00 Ridley Road Market, Dalston.
Walking home through the market, armed with a paper bag full of veg, I was blissfully aware I was actually part of the scene. Unlike the ones moving fastest in the melee, the ones with the ubquitious orange florescent glow of polythene Sainsbury's bags cutting into their hands, hot- stepping through the market, their guilty eyes firmly to the ground as they hurry through the stalls.
As I passed the run down Mr Bagels - incidentally, the first bagel shop I've seen with a slot machine - and approached the butcher's on the corner, praising the civility of market trading in my head, a lady who looked like Quentin Blake's illustrations of Mrs Twit, but wearing Dunlop sportswear, tapped me on the shoulder.
Lady: Fifteh pee....I'll gis' yer a blow job.
Me:......... Neeeew thenkyew (my shock decapitating my ability to pronounce basic vowels)
No comments:
Post a Comment