Saturday at the market

For the traveller returning from distant lands, Saturday is a good day to go back to the market. The frenziness of normal days is missing; half the dealers are shut down; there's less stuff to find (no organics usually), and the market finishes earlier. But there is still plenty. The relative calm allows you to take it easy, and be reminded, skip after skip, what it is all about. Food wasted, food saved; a dip into the bowles of the global food market; random thoughts, and lucky finds, on a slow cycle through concrete-paved South London.

The first time you went to the market was on Saturday. Stuart said it's hassle free day, but in fact you were caught by a guard, wearing florscent jacket and talking on his radio. He demanded you throw everything you found (these potatoes as well); but you had more in the other bag. When asked why, he murmured something about rats in the skips, and the danger of rabis. Since then it's been four years and you have not seen a rat in the market. Coming back home to the Funeral Parlor, you cooked lunch, and ate (with some suspicion) your best prize from that day: a tray of half frozen lobster-filled ravioli.