We heard the band from the bus, we were on the 38 to Angel, and we heard the band from the bus, I craned my neck to see, and then I said, “Okay,” I said, “this is the new plan.”

Exmouth Market I discovered when I temped at Amnesty last autumn. There are flowerboxes on Exmouth Market, madeleines, orchids, postcards, foosball, jellied eels, felt purses, and shiny, fancy jewellery that glints as you go by. It’s one of those places, see, you come ’round the corner and you exhale quiet and low from the wonder. It was early that first day, I’d gotten to work too early, and Exmouth Market was tranquil too, the guy from the Middle Eastern restaurant was still setting up shop. There were strings of light bulbs hanging zigzag from the lampposts, because it was the season for it, I’d figured, but now I know there are always strings of light bulbs hanging zigzag from the lampposts of Exmouth Market, because it is always the season for it. Lunchtimes, last autumn, I’d sit at the bar in Moro sometimes, for soup or a little earthenware dish of grilled chorizo. The barmen were hot, and, if there was enough time before I had to put my book away, served up a minty mint tea.



Sunday everyone was outside, and the Caribbean boys smiled Caribbean smiles. There were knitted doughnuts, and giraffes made out of Seventies fabrics; there were church jumbles; there were rides, even. There was homemade vanilla ice cream, there were free cupcakes for a drink or a kiss, down one end there was a side of pig rotating in the grill. There was a cute girl selling cute mushrooms. (Yes, nameko, I am looking at you.) The boy at the Brindisa stand was telling me about two legs of ham. “This one is very, very nice,” he said, pointing at the something, “and this one,” he said, pointing to the jabugo, “is wonderful.” “I’ll take the wonderful, please,” I said, because how could I not, and there were green olives, too, that came with, and a hunk of crusty bread with a garlicky garlic spread.

We walked down the market and up the market and down once more. Later, we headed home along Rosebery with two pastéis de nata in a Jack Gomme bag.