Friday, June 24, 2005

Market Forces

Venturing out in search of lunch at about 3pm (the time at which it became apparent that coffee and Marlboro Blues alone cannot sustain one for an entire day) I was pleasantly surprised to find that the untidy assortment of drunks and smackheads that frequent Acton Market Place had been swept aside in favour of - *gasp* - a market.

A French market, at that. With real French stallholders selling real French stuff, and speaking real French to the denizens of W3. Who, even more surprisingly, turn out to be no mean Francophones themselves. Gosh. It was almost like being back in Saint Chinian, but without the hordes of Brits.

I resisted the urge to buy one of those huge blocks of olive oil soap (it would have just sat around in the bathroom getting dirty), but I did do my bit for the bourgeoisie by purchasing some fantastic brie, some tomme de Savoie and some wild boar sausage. Then undid it again by nipping into Morrisons to get baked beans and fags.

But all that's beside the point. The real question is: does this mean Acton is going all gentrified? Might we be spared the need to move back up North?

No, that's not the real question. The real question is totally unrelated to French markets and London property hotspots. The *real* question is: how the hell am I going to get to Islington tonight when my feet are quite literally - and for once I'm not exaggerating* - a mass of seeping, open wounds?

I swear, if you peer through all the blood and pus and frayed nerve endings, you can actually see the bones in my left foot. Is there something particularly wrong with me, or do all women suffer in this way? If the latter, why, for the love of God, do we keep buying flip-flops? Have we no sense whatsoever?

Probably best if no one answers that, actually.

* Much.


Pashmina said...

Come back to the north, come, come... You know it makes sense. Your feet will still be shredded by pretty shoes, but it will be a much shorter hop on the Silverlink to Highbury & Islington.

(You can get it from Acton too, by the way, but it takes ages)

cello said...

Do you not have a sensible pair of slippers, woman?

patroclus said...

I am coming back, French market or no French market. Acton's been rubbish since the S&M Café closed down. Arguably, it was also rubbish before it closed down, but we didn't live here then.

And cello, no, a sensible pair of slippers - along with a purse and any form of suitable night attire - is something that I've always foolishly neglected to invest in. One day I will see the error of my ways. One day soon, at this rate.

cello said...

One of the great things about getting a little bit older is that you no longer have any vanity or inhibitions. And there's nothing stopping you doing all the best things about being young as well.

So you can still do all the sex, drugs, r&r, dancing, falling in love, staying up too late, wanting to save the world etc. But also give in to those other, cosy and comfy, urges, like gardening, sudoku, Radio 4, elasticated waistbands, bidding for actors on whom you have a crush and slippers.

BiScUiTs said...

I've got some slippers, and I lost one of them for about a year. Then my mum found it under a bookshelf.

cello said...

Was that a good or a bad thing?

Konrad said...

Rent a flat above a shop!
Cut your hair and get a job!
Smoke some fags and play some pool.
Pretend you never went to school.
But still you'll never get it right.
When you're lyin' in bed at night,
Watching roaches climb the wall.
If you call your dad he could stop it all.

Maybe heal your feet as well? :-)

patroclus said...

I couldn't have put it better myself, Konrad.

BiScUiTs said...

Ha ha very nice Konrad!
Oh the slipper thing was definately a good thing, because now I have two slippers.

cello said...

So that proves it. I knew you'd have two feet.

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