Having broken free of nice, shiny Summertown suburbia - for a whole 24 hours! - I found myself playing at being a traveler. The babble of foreign languages and music and stalls of unrecognisable fruit and veg and enormous pigs' trotters and fish in clear plastic bags made me feel like I was five thousand miles from home again. It was magic. I strode through Brixton market with a swing in my step and a barely disguised grin creeping its way across my face. So much to see and smell and hear and be amazed by - it was everything I loved about being abroad. And in my grounded state, someone had brought it all to me here in England! I felt like I was about to burst with excitement.
I poked and prodded and inhaled until I found the perfect mini papayas, and bought a bag of lychees for a pound. I discovered what breadfruit look like, though not what one is supposed to do with it. I even caught a glimpse of the elusive pomelo, an exotic fruit I was fed as a child, somewhere between a giant grapefruit and a melon, which I was consistently accused of having invented, due to the lack of any remaining physical evidence to show disbelieving friends.
Then, just to make the "traveling" experience even more authentic, I got proposed to. Ha!
He was a little fishmonger who had already made a couple of suggestive comments as I had strolled past, and as I turned to pace back again he called out: "You want to marry me, lady?" I couldn't place his accent, and being surrounded by so many nationalities and races and cultures, I was curious to find out where at least one of these facinating people came from. So, with my inquisitive traveler spirit still bouncign around inside me, I asked.
"Oh, I come from very bad country" replied the little fishmonger, his smile still intact. "My country not good place." Despite the grin, I could tell he was being serious.
"Where?" I insisted, saddened that anyone should have to feel such shame over their origin.
"Afghanistan" he replied.
"Oh" I said, dumbly.
Fortunately I was spared having to find a suitable response as the Afghan fishmonger took the opportunity to ask where I was from. I have been asked this question many, many times over the past few years, but never, never in my own country. It made me smile.
"I'm from here" I said, "England."
The little fishmonger's face lit up. "I want marry English lady" he said.
I had my polite declination planned. "I'm sorry, I'm already married." I apologised, tucking my left hand out of sight so that the lack of ring was not glaringly obvious. But we continued to grin at each other, the jovial atmosphere unspoiled.
As I turned to walk away, the optimistic little Afghan fishmonger called out: "Maybe I find another English lady to marry."
Maybe he will.
Friday, 20 July 2007
Hurled Back to Life in the 21st century
A lot of strange things have happened in England since I've been away. There is no bell rung in the pub at ten to eleven. Tony Blair is no longer Prime Minister. And people have been replaced by robots.
Yes, robots.
I innocently walk into the local Co-op on my first weekend back in Britain, a very posh supermarket in the classy Oxford suburb of Summertown which tellingly sells red split lentils, unpronounceable fruit juices and organic wholemeal couscous. All those things which are cheap, staple foods in third world countries, but which in England are the most fashionable of fashionable foods - ridiculously overpriced, exotic-sounding AND healthy!
Finally back in Blighty, I'm quite excited about the prospect of being able to buy a copy of the Guardian and some coconut macaroons, but my plan to just nip in and out is thwarted by massively long checkout queues. Until I spot a suspiciously short little queue at the far end, and smugly stroll over, wondering why no-one else has done the same. Then I realise.
BECAUSE THE CASHIER IS A ROBOT.
Christ. Terrifying. I clutch my newspaper and scoot back into line behind three enormous trolleys.
The following week, having grabbed a carton of cranberry juice to enjoy with my Saturday paper, I discover, to my horror, that due to the Co-op's abnormally empty state, there are no cashiers. Except the Robot. Oh God.
I shuffle over and touch the screen. A friendly female voice greets me and instructs me to scan my items. I make it go beep. "Please place the item in the bag" says Robot Lady. I frown. I don't want a bag. I put my macaroons NEXT to the bag, to one side.
"Please select your payment option" I stick my card into the slot and am requested to wait. So I pick up the Guardian to glance at the headlines.
"Please place the item BACK in the bag" growls Robot Lady. What?! How the hell does she know???!!
I give the screen a filthy glare, knotting my brow as much as possible. Robot Lady does not seem fased by this death-defying scowl. I sheepishly place my paper back next to the plastic bags. The hideous piece of technology pretends not to care.
The transaction complete, I tuck the cranberry juice and Guardian under my arm, give the screen one last evil grimace, and flounce out of the store with my purchases.
Yes, robots.
I innocently walk into the local Co-op on my first weekend back in Britain, a very posh supermarket in the classy Oxford suburb of Summertown which tellingly sells red split lentils, unpronounceable fruit juices and organic wholemeal couscous. All those things which are cheap, staple foods in third world countries, but which in England are the most fashionable of fashionable foods - ridiculously overpriced, exotic-sounding AND healthy!
Finally back in Blighty, I'm quite excited about the prospect of being able to buy a copy of the Guardian and some coconut macaroons, but my plan to just nip in and out is thwarted by massively long checkout queues. Until I spot a suspiciously short little queue at the far end, and smugly stroll over, wondering why no-one else has done the same. Then I realise.
BECAUSE THE CASHIER IS A ROBOT.
Christ. Terrifying. I clutch my newspaper and scoot back into line behind three enormous trolleys.
The following week, having grabbed a carton of cranberry juice to enjoy with my Saturday paper, I discover, to my horror, that due to the Co-op's abnormally empty state, there are no cashiers. Except the Robot. Oh God.
I shuffle over and touch the screen. A friendly female voice greets me and instructs me to scan my items. I make it go beep. "Please place the item in the bag" says Robot Lady. I frown. I don't want a bag. I put my macaroons NEXT to the bag, to one side.
"Please select your payment option" I stick my card into the slot and am requested to wait. So I pick up the Guardian to glance at the headlines.
"Please place the item BACK in the bag" growls Robot Lady. What?! How the hell does she know???!!
I give the screen a filthy glare, knotting my brow as much as possible. Robot Lady does not seem fased by this death-defying scowl. I sheepishly place my paper back next to the plastic bags. The hideous piece of technology pretends not to care.
The transaction complete, I tuck the cranberry juice and Guardian under my arm, give the screen one last evil grimace, and flounce out of the store with my purchases.
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