DOWN at East Street Market, a lady on crutches stands by the fish stall in the Saturday-morning sun. ‘Harrington’s, that’s my local,’ she says to the trader in the white coat. ‘No,’ the lady standing next to her replies, ‘the pies there don’t taste as nice.’
‘Anyway, how you been, girl?’ the trader asks, as he hands over a pint of whelks. ‘Well it was my brother’s inquest last week,’ the lady on crutches replies, ‘they said he didn’t do it on purpose, so that’s something.’
By the time I get to the front of the queue, the shrimps are gone, so I ask for half a
