5000 Miles away in Brixton

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.