Market traders with their rough old greengrocer scales and their odd collections of rusty old weights, everything done briskly with - for regular punters - a 'dear' or 'darling' thrown in. Look, what you want is some potatoes or spring greens or something, and that's what you get, cheerfully in the general clamour, without any nit-picking. As any fule kno the error, which it would be churlish to measure, is likely to be in the trader's favour. It's a privilege well earned in my book by a hard physical life with very early hours and generally good-quality produce which you can examine in advance and prod or poke unless they've never seen you before.
Goodness how I miss the Portobello Road. It was neighbourly, like village life, but with that very acerbic London edge. The tourist and visitor majority and the actual locals were like two different contimuums existing side by side.
|
