bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog
Friday Afternoon Down Bishopsgate Way
Thursday, December 17th, 2009 at 9:25 pm | Write a comment
Last Friday, I had my boxer shorts on backwards all day, which made the world seem like a more roomy, but also more cramped, place than normal. I might do it more often, as it was sort of wrong but right, like Elvis in Vegas. I only noticed in the gents’ at the Lamb public house at Leadenhall Market, when, at a happily deserted urinal, I spent rather more time than I suspect would be considered socially acceptable trying to work out where my cock had gone.
I have very little to do with our stall at Leadenhall, apart from dropping off stock to Tony, which usually occurs on a Thursday afternoon, and I found it interesting to trade there for the day. All the markets we operate in have their own little foibles: Greenwich floods suddenly and dramatically whenever there is heavy rain. Camden has its hoardes of shrieking fucktards, and Leadenhall, I noticed, has endless likeable but slightly, I dunno, strained full-on career ladies. One of them got her face out and gave me a proper look with it when I extended a hearty welcome to our lovely kitchenware stall, so I said ‘Yeah, sorry, you look really familiar – have you ever done any porn?’ as she stalked back off to, I presume, a life of hair straighteners, opaque tights, waxing, internet dating, Snow Patrol, solitary wine consumption and weeping herself nightly towards childless spinsterhood. People who don’t want aprons with ‘Beam Me Up, Biscotti’ written on them are all the same.
[Hitting Read More now will reveal pigeon-related near arrests]
The other notable feature of Leadenhall is the pigeons in the roof – and in particular, a pigeon in the bit of roof above our stall – who befoul our otherwise lovely merchandise. You’d think that with so many 30-something office ladies about, one of them would be carrying a spare cat in her handbag which we could borrow to scare off the feathery crapster, but no. Tony enterprisingly deals with the situation by regularly hurling a tennis ball at the beaky bowel mover. In a short but exciting voyage of discovery, I also learned that cheese vendors deal with rapidly descending tennis balls bouncing about among their stock with unconcealed annoyance, and that representatives of the local constabulary who happen to be wandering though the market deal with sports-equipment related altercations between traders by using phrases like ‘I’ll throw that up your arse in a minute if you like’.
Photards: Top: Some of our baby bibs flapping away like idiots on a south London washing line
Middle: My stall at Greenwich. All the red material here was salvaged by me from a skip in Brick Lane. Note barrow peeping cheekily from underneath.
Bottom: Tony’s stall at Leadenhall. Pinnies from Heaven? Oh fuck off. Tony was also salvaged by me from a skip in Brick Lane.
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