So, in my last post I had the audacity to proclaim that I would present a post every day. I have not kept this promise and I expect to be lashed with shoelaces soaked in perfume, by exquisite boys. Well, not really, but that would be nice (however impossible it may be). In any case, I’m going to persevere and let you in on a morbid secret: I FREAKING L♥VE THE MARKETS. Yes, I just replaced the “O” in “love” with a jaunty little wingding heart. I can feel all the literary students of OCD bemoaning my existence and wishing I were dead. But, too bloody bad. I really do freaking love them. Not necessarily because I love buying things at the markets, but because of the atmosphere – the yelling, the squished together bodies, the fumbling of handmade merchandise, the smelling of fresh-off-the-dirt cabbages and the dogs. Oh, the dogs. Dogs of every size and shape, following their owners through the crowds, lackadaisically. Periodically sniffing the effervescent bottom of another hound. All class, lots of smelling arse.
The highlight of the markets, for me, is citing the Egg Guy. I have termed this guy the Egg Guy due to the presence of a quirky chicken-shaped hat that he dons with pride and the sporadically shouted bursts of “EGGS, EGGS, EGGS! GET CHOOOREE EGGS HERE!” that float through the air. It’s like the man suffers from a most curious form of Tourettes in which he stutters “EGGS” into the atmosphere at the most inopportune moments. Just the other day he crowed “EGGS” into the air, when a young lady had picked up a tray of two-dozen, sending her into a startled frenzy. EGGS, EGGS, EGGS were indeed, subsequently, everywhere. As a permanent fixture in my visits to the West End Markets (commonly known as the Davies Park Markets), I search him out upon every expedition. Last Saturday when I went, he was not there, and I felt very sad indeed.
My boyfriend and I have a standing agreement: if we go to the markets, we MUST get frankfurters at the German Sausage Hut. We stick by this tradition like Indians stick by serving excruciatingly-hot curry to ignorant foreigners. So, the other day, after grabbing our frankfurters, we strolled down the hill to just in front of the river walk and scoffed them down. I am, by no means, a neat eater – and surely enough, by the end of the procedure, I had plastered German mustard all over my schnoz. My boyfriend, being the gallant sort that he is, saw fit to laugh at me for a few minutes before coming to my assistance with spare napkin. Thanks, Nan, I appreciate it. The other thing I didn’t anticipate was the fact that our seating arrangement ensured that we were in front of the path that led up to the markets from the river-side. So, not only did I have mustard smeared all over my face, passersby were given a front-row seat to the spectacle.
On the upside, the view of the river was pretty.
After making our rounds at the markets and picking up a range of delicious fruit and a couple for napkins to stave off any more Mustard Mishaps, we decided to trundle to the Fortitude Valley Markets to see if I could score a new little succulent pot-plant. Unfortunately, Succulent Pot-Plant Lady was did not have much of a range on this particular Saturday, so we decided to pop in and say hidy-ho to my dad (who works at the markets on Saturday) and then tread around The Valley in search of the incredibly kitsch and tacky. I decided to stroll out to the lurgy of cheapish shops and second-hand haunts that seem to over-run large parts of The Valley – including, strangely enough, the red-light district. So, avoiding the pools of sick and piles of excrement, we entered the dusty rows of tacky merchandise only to have our imaginations and horrors run away with us. Good times.
On our travels we came across a very disturbing gum ball machine. We figure the logic of this placement (in front of a shifty looking cheapish store and next to a karaoke/strip joint) has a lot to do with their prospective buyer – as in, you would have to be fairly desperate and indefinitely inebriated to even consider throwing away a few bits of shrapnel to consume anything that came from that death machine.
We ducked into so many second-hand stores that The Boy turned into a fuzzy-headed, Graniph-clad mess of sinus-congealment and snot. I say it was totally worth it. I think he may beg to differ.
I have a lot of photos of my feet. People, you’re just going to have to deal with it. I think I have lovely feet. Apart from my ever-expanding corn and my abnormally long toes. They’re also abnormally prehensile and enable me to make soaring leaps. Much like a ninja. Just sayin’.
When we finally decided that eating would be a good idea, we resided to a Mexican fast-food chain, sportingly called Mad Mex that boasts a multi-tiered Corona chandelier, an unhealthy fixation with the Lucha Libre, and some very stern and macho looking Mexican staff-members with so-thick-you-could-spread-it-on-a-taco accents. With confidence that we had found a “Genuine Mexican” eatery, we scoffed down tacos WITHOUT beans. I hate beans in my tacos. It’s got nothing to do with farts, it has everything to do with it tasting like congealed tile sealant.