Cheap duvet covers in plastic bags and rugs, kaftans, fluffy hats and handbags. Furry throws in lurid shades and wads of fabric in swirling patterns stacked up like a domino house. Wafts of popcorn and candy-coated nuts invade my nostrils and my stomach grumbles in response.
“Nuffing… I got internet,” a large cheery black woman says to her friend, pushing a pram. A tabby cat pads out of a Caribbean spice shop looking at home amongst the plantain and yams. Reggae sounds thrum in the background behind the salt fish and Turkish flat bread stalls.
“Got rum and red label an’ that,” she says to her friend.
“Aw my gawd,” her friend replies, and then they are gone, into the crowd amongst the pig trotters and tripe nestling up beside the Caribbean hairdresser. Halal hotdogs and burgers next to African spices and the rank stench of raw meat from the babbling Turkish vendors. A wanderer wearing a grey dufflecoat, hood up, teeth bared nearly knocks me over, muttering “I’m going back this way,” to no-one in particular.
At the top of the road, I am about to turn back, the pages of my notebook soggy with drizzle, camera poised for a final parting shot, when a splash of colour catches my eye. And there she sits, sprayed in sapphire glory on a shuttered up shop; striking blue portrait of a young girl’s face, staring back at me with slate-grey eyes, following my every move.
Steampunk Muse 