When most people think of France and the French they think of wine and cheese, Paris and the Eiffel Tower. They think of food, and good holidays somewhere or other. There are the Impressionist painters. Great writers and scientists like Emile Zola and Louis Pasteur. And of course there’s Napoleon. So much that’s great has come out of France. There’s even the Liberty, Equality and Fraternity of the French Revolution let alone rugby and football! But for market traders it’s different. When market traders think of France they think of French kids. Thieving little French kids with hands that move faster than light speed who come to their stall in groups and expertly nick stuff right in front of their noses without them even knowing it’s happened!
It’s only later, when they’ve all disappeared and gone off to do another trader that you find gaps on the table where things used to be but have somehow amazingly disappeared, almost as if by magic. Derren Brown please take note! You just don’t know how it happened. You swear blind that they were there before and think you must have got it wrong only you haven’t. They were there and now they’ve just vanished.
It’s not as if you’ve been done by some brilliant professional. A master craftsman who can crack a safe as easily as a cockney can do a tub of jellied eels. Oh no, those gaps only appear after they’ve pissed off back to the youth hostel and you hear wails all over the market. It’s the school holidays again and the French kids have magpied your stock.
Thieving from a stall is a great art. Don’t underestimate the genius it takes! I was once stalled out on a paste table at Leather Lane street market, small trees at the front, willows in the middle and foot tall giants at the back where I was standing. There were lookers and there were customers but whatever I was doing my eyes were all over the stall. Taking in everyone’s movement and knowing where everything was. Suddenly I blinked. Something that had been there before seconds earlier, no more than six inches away, had gone. I blinked again. It couldn’t have! It was impossible. The giant Chico with orange leaves simply wasn’t there anymore. You needed an outsize carrier bag to put it in. But how had it happened? Someone must have seen it being lifted. Now I knew all about being distracted only I hadn’t been. It was definitely the giant Chico with carnelian leaves. A real piece of crap but thirty quid all the same. To do that, lift it off the stall right from under my nose was pure magic. The army needs people like that. They’d make getting out of Colditz a piece of cake! Suddenly the Englanders aren’t there anymore and the Germans can’t figure it out!
Well I’d had my fill of a summer of French kids. I couldn’t stop them thieving and couldn’t catch them doing it either. What I had to do was minimise my losses. Come up with a plan. The more I thought about it the simpler it got. If their stealing couldn’t be stopped the best thing to do was control it. Encourage them to steal what I wanted them to steal by guiding them with small, cheap sparkly rubbish placed right in front of the stall. Stuff that would make them happy. I had the perfect thing in mind. Little golden pieces of iron pyrites costing me 50 pence each and laid out like temptation. Irresistible! Lovely and shiny! Perfect gifts for their brothers or mates. Nick one or two and they wouldn’t want anything else. Alternatively they could thieve my semi-precious tumble-stone pebbles piled high in a couple of basket that only cost me 5 pence apiece. Want some of those? Mes enfants you are welcome!
Behind these temptations are the extra tiny and tiny trees at four-fifty and six quid respectively. If they’d had their fill getting something for nothing from the front the urge might be satisfied. They wouldn’t bother going further back.
Okay I thought, I’d experiment. Lay up the stall on the main market and see how it went. Strategic thinking. Let them believe they were getting one over on me only it would be the other way round. I’d be stoking their desire. Little bright gold things out at the front along with polished pebbles of rose quartz, rock crystal and amethyst. So easy to take and stuffed in their pockets they wouldn’t break like the trees. I saw it all in my mind’s eye. My advance guard out there at the front tempting the French while I held my big guns in reserve at the rear. Hold on my son! Don’t get carried away. This was a London street market not Waterloo, and I wasn’t a duke either. Let the kids turn up and see how it goes. Then you’ll know if you’re right.
It was a mid-morning when the first party arrived. Past the bag stall, the teapots and masks. About fifteen of them, most early teens and all singing unzip a banana. The sparkle of the stall had caught their attention and they were heading my way. Suddenly they were milling around at the front. “Bonjour mes enfants,” I smoothed out in French. We take euros, no problem. Soon they were actually buying. Small trees for starters then a frog on marble. How much for the palm? Twenty-five euro? It was too much. Then one of them bought an amethyst willow for his mum and another, a tiger eye bonsai for his older brother. Wonderful. Sixty euros in my pocket. I was on a real roll and hoping for more. It never came. It was like someone had switched off a tap. Some chatter and they were gone. All disappeared in a group. My eyes ran along the front of the stall. Six out of the ten pyrite nodules vanished and the levels of pebbles dropped in both baskets.
I thought long and hard. It was amazing. I hadn’t seen any of it go but the trees were all there along with the quartz groups and jewellery. In minutes I replaced the whole lot from supplies under the table.
The same thing happened again three times during the week. The results almost the same. Sold five or six pieces on each occasion to large and small parties and lost the same stuff.
It took a month to fully establish the format. During that time I further livened the front with a scattering of ten-penny quartz crystals. Un-mounted single point giveaways that went like hot cakes. Stolen I mean. They were going for the crystals now as much as the pyrites. Three excellent things. Small, easy to nick and definitely worth the effort. In two months I had it down pat. I was right. I couldn’t stop them stealing so I’d help it along. It created a good feeling and actually encouraged others to buy.
Or maybe it wasn’t like that at all. Sales of other stuff to these groups was increasing. Maybe the kids who were buying were also those who were thieving! Come to think of it that was almost certainly the case. What was happening was simple enough. They regarded the stuff they were pocketing as a discount. Americans always asked. Spend two quid and they wanted twenty percent off. The French kids were different. They just took.
So who were the worst, I wound up asking myself. The thieves or the tight arses? You see, market traders aren’t just jack the lads who go around breaking plates and talking cockney. You know… alf a pound of tuppeny rice, alf a pound of treacle. They can also be generals on the quiet. And dare I say it, philosophers!
