When Chris said: “We really won’t need to buy much for the flat, as I have a lot of stuff…” what he really meant was: “There really won’t be space for sensible things in the flat, as I have an archive of obscure kitchen utensils circa 1972, a waffle maker, eight packets of instant mashed potato, half a bottle of Malibu, several old computer consoles, two bikes, an electrical tapestry of seemingly pointless wires, a duck-shaped popcorn maker and, if the last item wasn’t quiiite random enough, come admire my intricately painted accordion.”
Living with Chris is whole-heartedly tremendous, and not just because he owns a massive TV, makes cheese cake from scratch, and there is always, always beer in the fridge.
But, with my marked lack of practical of belongings coupled with his humorous array of impulse purchases, we’ve found ourselves in the somewhat awkward position of enthusiastically inviting people over to our new place, only to make them eat with their hands and drink wine from a KitKat mug. (Making sure we then rinse the mug that night so you can’t smell wine when eating cereal from it the following morning.)
While I know several people who might not see a duck-shaped popcorn maker and an 80s fondue set as adequate recompense for eating their beans on toast with a spoon and a chopstick, what can be said for our assorted jumble, if slightly unessential to daily life, is that it is entirely in keeping with our new ‘hood’.
Brick Lane market may officially be the saris, jewellery, hookahs and other shiny goods that fill the eponymous East London street every weekend, but the call of the market trader doesn’t stop there: in the environs of Brick Lane, everyone’s at it.
A little detour down any surrounding side road swiftly turns into picking a path through an increasingly bizarre sea of objects. From a wheelbarrow stacked high with guava juice, to a small Indian man sitting crossed legged by a tea towel displaying a single sunglasses lens, three brown leather laces and a plastic apple, this area reverberates with the passing on of random things.
Even on our street, two roads away from the main action, a gaggle of plump ladies spend their weekends kicking back on the pavement outside their house, noses buried deep in the revelations of Heat magazine, whilst scattered around them are old and faded children’s’ toys that, oneday someday, a passer by might just fancy.
Other than plonking them on the pavement, no effort is made to sell these battered wares, and aside from one or two Ramsey Street residents ambling by, the hours scarcely bring anyone past the group – but they carry on regardless. It’s just the done thing.
While used plastic toys are the specialty in our residential cul-de-sac, over the other side of Brick Lane a slightly larger-scale racket is in place. Every Sunday, the unassuming side road of Sclater Street transforms into the jostling nucleus of London’s bicycle black market; if your bike goes walkies in the capital, trot down to Sclater Street the following weekend and you’re sure to buy it back for a very reasonable sum. And, if you happen to, er… find one… then the Sclater Street traders will happily relieve you of your acquisition.
Hmmm, I’m sure Chris doesn’t need two bikes.
