bored of excitement – the griefjunkie blog 

Dear Rachel

Consider this list of items: dogs, medallions, vans, wholesalers and sunshine.    These are all things to be enjoyed in various degrees, according to the taste and preferences of the participant.    Get them in the wrong order, though, and the results can be catastrophic.    Take the example of Fruity Eddie from Greenwich Market, whose medallion repeatedly caught the sun while he was transferring stock between two trolleys outside a fruit and veg warehouse in Upminster last Thursday.    The resultant beam of light projected into his van, which is three weeks old, to the furious and astonished amusement of Luca, his Staffordshire Bull Terrier, who is seven.

The age of Luca is immaterial, however, as any canine will chase a beam of light around a confined space for hours, never tiring until it eventually succumbs to hunger or fatigue.    Not content with merely chasing the light, Luca had actually attempted to dig it out of the upholstery at the various points at which changes in Fruity Eddie’s posture had served to make it disappear.    Luca was significantly prouder with the prolonged effects of this activity than Fruity Eddie, or indeed his insurance company, who don’t pay out for such things.    I did mention that at least it was nice to see a bit of sunshine, to which Eddie replied that the next time Luca was bored, he would shine a sunbeam onto my balls, and see how funny I found it then.

Fruity Eddie’s additional trip to the wholesaler was in preparation for the Diamond Jubilee weekend, which was always going to be tricky.    I am something of a monarchist, but big events wreck trade, as all your regular customers either go to the event, or stay at home to avoid it.    You also have loads of people coming into the area that have never been there before, on the way to or from whatever is being celebrated.    Therefore, most of the people you deal with have simply never been in a market and – and this is strange thing to say – don’t know how to act once they get there.    If your entire retail experience consists of tramping around Bluewater or Westfield with bad tattoos and a bit of a sulk on, you’re going to charge round Greenwich Market in a constantly alternating state of over and under stimulation, approaching kitchenware vendors like myself with such questions as ‘These are great aprons mate – bit of a chef, are you?’    This happened more times than you might expect, and demonstrates a curious logic.    I have loads of Beatles stuff, but I’m not in the Beatles.    I’m not John Lennon.    Similarly, I’ve got a couple of West Ham shirts upstairs, but I don’t play for them, neither am I the E13 and E15 postal districts of east London, after which the club is named.

Life can be full of these little contradictions, though.    For example, Danny doesn’t miss his ex wife, but he does miss her tits.    He last had a go on them some time after they split up, in return for plumbing in her washing machine.    I thought it was scandalous that he wasn’t even allowed a cursory check under the bonnet, considering he’d plumbed in a whole washing machine, but although dealing with the double blow of splitting up with both your mrs and her tits can be shattering, you’ve ultimately only got yourself to blame.    There are such things as pre-nups, after all, which could’ve granted some degree of access, like it did with the kids.    I also suggested that he should’ve plumbed the washing machine into the oven so that the clothes came out dry and warm, but this was mainly for the benefit of the lady I was selling kitchenware to at the time, being that this conversation took place through the side of my stall, Danny’s preferred venue for articulating his thoughts and concerns.      The lady’s thoughts and concerns about the purchase of an apron covered topics as diverse as what sort of cooking should you use it for to what to do should it catch fire while barbequing.    I handled this latter question with the no-nonsense advice that you should remain calm, remove the garment, and step away from it.    I offered to put an apron on her and set fire to it there and then, as a kind of practice, but she declined.    She went on to ask how long it would last, given reasonable use, to which I asked if she was just lonely and wanted to talk to someone.    It was at this point that Danny and his ex wife’s tits entered the arena and put an end to an enthralling conversation.    Trading during the Olympics – about which I am disgruntled to such an extent that it probably shows up on the autistic spectrum – will be like this, but with the added bonus that it will go on for weeks on end.    What a joy that promises to be.

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Photards – this week, it’s:

Top: The Shard, taken from London Bridge station. Both are difficult buildings to love, but at least London Bridge station isn’t built on one of the best kebab shops in London. I still heartily recommend Barry and Sally under the railway bridge next to the traffic lights, though, if you’re in the area and in need of quality kebabbery.

Middle: The Goat Bag Man, myself, Chris and Artist Lou rendered in cartoon form by a mate of mine. Looking at this, it’s easy to forget that we are four adult males with a combined age of 148, and that one of us is black. I quite like it though.

Lower: Collection of bus tickets from Moscow. I’m quite into stuff like this, and with people coming into the market from all over the place I find that asking if they have any bus tickets from home is a way to pass the time and, of course, build a collection of bus tickets. You have doubtless already have spotted that there are tickets for the tram and metro system here, too.