MARKET TRADING DELIGHTS

I’d originally given this Post the title, PORNOGRAPHY! One of the subjects most frequently accessed through the internet by the British public, among whom may be counted our delightful police! It was actually an experiment. In the past I’ve often observed that the readership of my Posts was directly associated with their title. People attracted by something which informed them about the subject matter and commanding greater attention if it was headed by a pungent or provocative opener rather than something neutral or weak. Without topicality or dramatic punch.

The experiment I thought I’d try out was in a way really no different to many of the headlines dished up by the lower end tabloids, sometimes referred to as the dirt end of the market by the prim and prissy readership of the higher end stuff. It was all very well for higher end readers to snigger and sneer and tell the lower end that they only got what they paid for but quite frankly that’s not always the case. As Rudyard Kipling once pointedly remarked, the Colonel’s lady and Judy O’Grady are sisters under the skin to say nothing about the Colonel himself and his secret subscription to the lad-mags!

All of this said I was simply curious to find out just how many people would initially latch onto the title and maybe retain their interest, reading further to the real subject matter which are two powerful sketches by a trader recounting experiences from his life on the London street markets. If the resulting download proved considerably heavier than usual it would confirm my initial hypothesis. If not the experiment would still prove educational for its result. The important thing for me was to try out my hypothesis!

Well I did! The blog was initially posted under the title PORNOGRAPHY and a day later I got the result. A really poor visit of 10! Most interesting! Maybe the British are a nation of prudes after all or maybe they were just scared of being caught logging on to the title! Anyway, I’ve changed it to the above but its content remains. I hope you enjoy my revelations!

In beginning my first sketch I have an important confession to make. Once, while working at Covent Garden Market central London I was very rude to some Americans! Americans, let me tell you, are notorious among market traders wherever they are and whatever they sell! It’s a fact. A truth which market traders universally hold to be self-evident! Market traders in general don’t like Americans. That’s because they talk a great deal. Yabber, yabber, yabber and that’s about it. What they don’t do is buy! It’s the general opinion among street traders that they’re just full of shit! That’s not because they’re nasty or unpleasant people it’s because all they like to do is talk rather than buy anything! They’ll talk about what you’re selling and whether they like it and its price. Then they’ll talk about you and your wife and your family. Then about their wife and children and family… and what it’s like back home in Idaho or Texas or Alabama. And it doesn’t matter if you tell them how lovely these places are… well actually it does because then you’ve got another half hour talking crap with them about how you know that it’s lovely! And so you go on and on and on. Unfortunately it’s not at your stall alone that they do it but the one before yours so you’ve already heard it all before they get to you and once they’ve finished at your stall they go on to the next, and the next and the next! Talking endless crap, taking up your time and never buying anything from anyone. NOTHING!

It’s like that talking to you for half an hour or more makes them think that they’ve come away with something and there you are! You’re only there to take money otherwise you wouldn’t touch the filthy market you’re in with a barge pole! It’s like you’re doing them a favor just by being there! All this said, Americans are everyone’s worst customers. Just a nightmare you have to deal with on a daily basis if you’re trading in one of the popular London Street markets like Camden Lock, Covent Garden or Piccadilly. And after the Americans come the French. Adults that is. Famous for their plain bloody meanness. Americans on the other hand are notorious for trying to bargain! The object you’re selling may cost just a quid, maybe fifty pence. Whatever the case they’ll ask for a discount. If its fifty pence then usually half price! What puts traders backs up is the sheer cheek of it. In all truth though it’s more likely something home grown. They come to Europe thinking we’re all somehow like natives, like gormless country cousins, and we’ll take just about anything, even their largesse on a fifty percent discount. Yes, we’re so very pleased to have the honor of your presence standing in front of our stall that you can have anything you like for half price! A view to which most traders will simply think, well take your arses back to Kentucky and go fuck yourselves!

It was on a bright sunny Friday morning when I picked up on the yabber coming from the stall next to me, the one with Skinny Hazel selling the New Age Jewelry, all lovingly handcrafted and made in her workshop at home don’t you know! The usual patter making the Americans think it was all seriously home spun and genuinely ‘crafty’. Hazel working hard to give them the story of homespun originality when she’d actually bought it all in from Nepal! There they were, these two mid-thirties something middle class American academics, as I soon picked up, initially telling her how lovely it all was and that they were looking for presents for their daughters and that it didn’t sound at all expensive. Then their questions about whether she made it all herself, and where she lived and how long she’d been doing it for. On and on, all the usual stuff. Setting her up for a purchase then saying that they’d think about it but would definitely come back, before moving on to my stall and taking in my Gem-trees, semi-precious necklaces of Tiger Eye and Malachite, mineral specimens and all the rest of the shit that I sold.

Taking it in, giving it admiring glances and setting me up for half an hour or more of idle, useless, bollock-wash conversation. And me some miserable little trader standing there all primed up and ready! Mess about with me? I thought angrily, like the creative writer’s brain that I had was only there to serve their bullshit.  No thanks, I had plans! I’d use them for a little experiment of my own. Something psychological! Hello, I said with an ingratiating smile… are you two Americans? They both purred, like I’d somehow recognised their divinity! Yes they were. Americans eh, I responded, well you’d better fuck off!

I said it coldly and loud. Without any rancor. Just told them to fuck off!

For quite a while they were speechless. Just didn’t know whether they’d heard right. Stood there in sheer disbelieve before the man opened his mouth. Did he hear me saying what he thought he’d heard me saying? I nodded my head. Yes, I grinned, I told you to fuck off! His face took on a sheer disbelief. I could see they were both angry by now. Sorry, I quickly added, I simply don’t sell to Americans! I just won’t sell you any of my stuff so fuck off! It was like they didn’t know where to put themselves. Even so they weren’t leaving the stall… I’d thrown down a challenge, which being American intellectuals they had to pick up! Was I refusing to sell them my things because I didn’t like them personally or was it because I was just anti-American. That I blamed Americans for all kinds of things? I smiled inwardly. I already had their curiosity. Now I’d slowly turn it all friendly! No, no, nothing like that, I held up my hands deferentially, that’s not it at all. In fact my wife and father in law are American, I lied affably. I just never sold to Americans because they never bought anything anyway and just liked to talk. They were just wasting my time when I had hundreds of customers to sell my hand-made gem-trees to. They were much in demand. My wife made them. The money we earned bought us our food. She was a talented artist and I was a writer, I lied through my teeth!

And then the primer. Well most traders knew that Americans really didn’t have any money so they were just wasting their time with them anyway! As for me I wasn’t really a rude man. I just couldn’t afford to waste any time I said cool but pleasant!

It seemed to mollify them. Okay, they’d intended going to the management to make a strong complaint about me refusing to sell to Americans but now they wouldn’t. Fine I said. I hoped they’d have a good time in London and with that studiously turned my eyes away, concentrating on the stuff on the table and letting them have a little think. Either they’d move off or start making enquiries! A bit of coughing to attract my attention before they tentatively got down to the latter; especially the trees. My replies came quick and breezy. Almost noncommittal! They were very durable I said, deliberately twisting one up and throwing another onto the floor; made of real semi-precious stones, I said emphatically. No mention of price. I’d let them ask. Meanwhile I’d carefully changed my disposition and became marginally affable. Were they teachers I wondered. Academics perhaps? Now it was my turn to make with the bullshit, but nothing too heavy. I needed to come over likeable. Besides, the trees were seriously craft objects. No-one else made them anywhere except ourselves. It was a very British tradition I said quickly, solemnly turning my attention to a couple of Italians who asked a few questions and bought a couple of miniatures. They were like that the Italians, if they saw something they liked and it sparkled they bought! I put them into bags with a flourish and they were off!

The Americans took it all in. Quick as that eh? A bit of conversation between them and a couple of questions. Yes, I responded. Most of the gems on my trees were birthstones. And I might even give them a discount on two or more as they were genuine people. They were welcome to pick them up if they wanted. That was it. A friendly end of conversation. I’d ascertained that they were definitely drawn in and wasn’t wrong. No more humming and hawing. With birthstones dominating proceedings I sold them three of the smaller trees with a built in discount, artificial of course, then three of the large. One for their home, the others for mothers! And finally a free gift of one of the small jobs with garnets! Those are real garnets I purred, slyly adding that they should keep it for themselves.

And the outcome of my little experiment? Ninety quid in my pocket after a little intelligent work in the psychology of manipulation. I was simply a genius I thought to myself, confirming the fact that all my fellow traders had long realised. After the Americans had left some who’d heard the whole story came over to congratulate me on my work. Yes, I was a true genius I laughed raising my coffee cup. Well, here’s to the next time I tell Americans where to go shove it!

*****

It was a cold dull day at Leather Lane, one of the dreariest, most desperate of all the London Street Markets. Seriously filthy. Only a rush of people walking through between twelve and two, most without any money. If anything sold it was fruit and veg, tee-shirts, crap clothing, a few disreputable looking pots and pans and some cheap looking plaster ornaments. Basically just barrow loads of nothing. To get a stall there, even as a casual, you had to pay Charley, Camden’s slimy Indian market inspector now deceased, a fiver extra from the palm of your hand, or if it was for the better trading at the top end near Chancery Lane, a tenner. Twenty casuals, fiver or tenner a day, five days a week! Charley it was rumored, owned a Rolls Royce!

Yes a cold dull day at this goddamned awful market where most times we took a hundred at best and our stall a complete marvel and novelty to everyone there. The fruit and veg men often came over to gawp at our gem-trees, glowing in many colors near the lights of the shops we were close to, our delicate agate slices, strange volcanic geodes, attractive crystalline necklaces and pendants. There’d never been anything like it in Leather Lane Market and there we were, so close to Hatton Garden, the diamond and precious jewels center of Europe itself let alone London. Our stall and its contents were a total one off. In a word QUALITY compared to everything else, so the two people who ran it had to be toffs! On one side of us Diamond Sid selling god knows what. He was well over eighty and neither of us had ever seen anything at all on his table. Ever! Further down were the Pampermoose Mob. Heavies with whom we always kept it extra friendly and they for some reason with us. Stuff off the backs of lorries was their scene and they called us TREES! Awright today Trees? Was a real friendly greeting.

Today, though cold and dull, everything was going to be different only we didn’t yet know it! It was like the heavens would open up, the sun smile and an angel come down upon us. On me rather as I was alone that day of all days when the miracle would happen. It was midday. I’d stalled out by eleven, middle of the market. Neither good nor bad. Maybe sixty quid if I was lucky! Soon after twelve two or three customers and a handful of lookers. Then some short nondescript guy came along. Reasonably dressed. Neither shabby or smart, eyeing up the stuff on the stall. No questions, just spending time taking it in. I watched with interest. Leather Lane Market wasn’t a place for careful lookers. It was either walk by and glance or stop, ask and buy, but this man was paying careful attention. His first questions were about durability. How strong were the trees? Would they easily break? Then what were they made of? What were the stones?

I went through the list of semi-precious, pointing out each that I named, then the different types of the trees that we had. The tall green ones were palms made of Aventurine or Green Quartz with little bunches of Tiger Eye dates underneath. Then we had small trees, Bonsais made of Crystal, Rose Quartz and Amethyst and Willows that looked beautiful in Crystal and Green Quartz. A finger pointed to the necklaces and I gave him the detail. He nodded for a while, looking everything over even more carefully. I felt increasingly curious but said nothing. Maybe he was a buyer from a department store or some kind of wholesaler, or maybe nothing at all. Just one of those curiosities we occasionally got on the markets. Well at Covent Garden maybe but Leather Lane? Most of the punters were from the office towers nearby out on lunch break, come over from Fleet Street or wandering up from the Garden. Cheese roll and half a pint in a pub then back to the drudge. Some fucking life and me out there telling them tales of minerals and stones, mines in faraway places and the natives we had to deal with to get hold of our gems!

The man looked up and began asking prices. I carefully went through the list, pricing each category along with the necklaces. He held up his hand stopping me short at the minerals then asked me to repeat. I did so casually, even affably, believing it was now end of story. Maybe one, two at absolute best. You lived in hope. It was that kind of day, that kind of market! Yea hope! It wasn’t to be. He thanked me, turned and was off, strangely brisk for my liking. I put it all to one side, rolled a liquorish and puffed. Man and incident forgotten. Half an hour later, by one, I’d sold three or four small trees and a cluster of pendants. Just one of those days I thought then caught the eye of the recently departed. Back again for more questions I thought.

It was nothing like that. Did I have any boxes he asked? Boxes, yes we put them back in their boxes when we packed them away I said, pointing to the long cardboard containers we had under the table. He looked for a moment then asked how I wrapped all the trees. Plastic bags, I said. Each had its own bag.

He again looked over the table. I want all of the large, he said quickly. Everything there on the table. And all the palm trees and bonsais. And I want fifty of the smaller trees. It’s more than you’ve got there. Have you got anything else underneath? I nodded and quickly brought another bag up. He hadn’t yet finished. And I want all the necklaces. Everything there and anything else that you’ve got.

I had a dozen more strings underneath I said coolly. Best quality Malachite! Them too he muttered.

I was staggered. More puzzled than anything. How would he transport it all? He shook his head. Not to worry about that! It’s all sorted out! Now you’ll be wanting some money!

Naturally I thought he was talking cards. The idea made me nervous. Someone pitches up out the blue, clears the table, buys just about everything I’ve got then  disappears up Stephen Hawking’s arsehole leaving me deep in a black hole. I hesitated for a moment. He noticed and a smile flickered over his face. I’m talking notes my son, he said quickly, so total it up.

I began writing it all down on some paper I had with me. Big trees so and so. Palms, bonsais and all the smaller stuff… Then the necklaces… Total well over a thousand quid! I hesitated to tell him. Adds up to twelve-fifty in all, I gulped. No problem. Seconds later he pulled a bundle out of his pocket and began counting out fifties. There we are my son, twelve ‘undred and fifty! Now you’d better get wrappin’.

I put the wad into my shirt pocket, did up the zipper and got wrapping. I was half the way through when I heard the sound of a motor. Looking up there next to the stall was a black taxi. Door open and he was already loading the boxes. I worked hard and careful. Making sure everything was well wrapped and packed perfect. Fifteen minutes later my table top almost empty along with the space underneath he took his leave. Lovely stuff, he said sweetly. Make really nice presents for the wife and kids and the rest of the family.

Together, me and the cabbie having loaded the last of the boxes he gave me a wave and was off. I couldn’t believe it. Stall completely cleaned out in Leather Lane like he was an angel, only he wasn’t. One of the fruit and veg men came over. Got out the nick just a few days ago, he confided. Big robbery. All in the papers five years ago. Police never found what ‘ee did with the money.

I pretended to be busy. Putting anything I had left on the table. A man of real quality I felt. Buying presents for his family and all. Cleaned me out of most of my stock on a cold dull day in the market. One of those miracle days. Only happens to a trader once in a blue moon. Well if he wasn’t saying anything neither was I, and then the money helped pay for my daughter’s wedding three months later. I mean, how was I to know whether the fruit and veg man was telling the truth!