Lunchtime

Its 30 degrees in Peckham this lunchtime. The ladies in the African market tear leaves of some description into tiny fragments in a big steel bowl ready for cooking. Waiting in the queue at the newsagents a man in his electric vehicle is maneuvering through the waiting customers, his cart is shiny red, he's as grey as a person can be. A tall woman stands in the doorway and shouts to the clerk in a booming voice, "my friend not here yet?" and laughs maniacally as she retreats down the street. The man behind me mutters something about nutters and loose women in a Jamaican drawl. The beggar with the woolly hat asks me for change. I duck through Nettos on the way back, without looking at the crowded checkouts and trying not to breathe the chloriney bleach smell.