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.
