Petticoat Lane (and the passers by)

7am Sunday clang. Clumsy gloved hands assembling clothing rails before dawn. Fluorescent £5. Reclaiming the street from the sockless Essex of a few hours before. 

We slept tight in a tight bed in a tight bedsit flat above it all. 60 degree white over the landlady’s purple.

Groups half listen to the tales of a sadistic serial killer. It’s been long enough. I politely walk through them into the Sainsbury’s.

Years before, I’d walked behind army surplus camo jackets and Dr. marten’s to the market. 

Every Sunday, I sought out the market seller who spoke with an electrolarynx. He’d try to defer to his Vietnamese wife, but she always just shrugged with indifference. I bought cameras and guitars, none of which worked.

The next stall sold Lomo cameras. I couldn’t afford one, but I bought a Holga. The camera came with a roll of black tape to block out the light leakage onto the film.

The market closed for redevelopment. Now there’s a Wagamama, if you were looking for one.

We met on the corner of Commercial Street. Fiona had sent coordinates. I wore Lacoste, Native American shoes and more than four colours - failing the Parisian screen. But she persevered.

Her fingers always appeared at the edge of the door first. Painted nails. Alfred’s kingdom. 

Fiona hated the crowds but I’d missed them. I’d spent lunch breaks retracing steps and now I was living in them. 

When Fiona moved, the place returned to gilets and lunch gangs. Glass and steel creeping closer. 

We need green now together as much as we need grey.

It’s a place people let go. Huguenots built it up and let it go. Moving on to something else together. 

And we are too.