Market Man

After my photographic endeavours in the Bishop's garden (see previous post) yesterday lunchtime I headed back to work via the precinct in Chichester; it was there that I discovered that not only was the market in full swing but there were coachloads of tourists in from the continent. How lucky, I thought, that I should pick today to miss out on all these street photo shots in favour of some plants. I often think things with heavy sarcasm.

Swallowing my disappointment I checked the time and realised I could hang around a few minutes and see if anything good caught my eye. Something did – I forget what now – and I lined up to take the shot, only to get that special photographer tingling sensation that tells you someone, somewhere, probably somewhere near, has just done something. I pulled the camera away from my face and glanced to my left where a man had obviously stopped in mid-stride, keen not to step in front of my shot. Ah, a conscientious civilian; I thanked him for his courtesy and indicated that it was fine for him to carry on through.

"I didn't want to spoil your shot," he said.

"You wouldn't have," I assured him.

"What are you taking a photo of?" he asked as he started to walk past.

"You," I said, swinging the camera up and catching him with a smile on his face.

He laughed. "Me? What for?"

"You're interesting." Nice people are always interesting but I didn't tell him he was nice because I've been down that route before and restraining orders aren't half as much fun as they sound.

He stopped then and looked around him. "What's this?" he asked.

I looked at the market stalls and the people in the market perusing the market stalls, as well as the signs on some of the market stalls that included the word "Market" in their writing. "It's a market," I told him.

"Is this a market?" he asked incredulously. I nodded, but I forget exactly which adjective would best complement the action. "Is this always here?" he asked with a high level of astonishment in his voice.

"Not always," I said slowly, trying to imagine an eternal market in Chichester. "First and third Friday of the month," I added.

"Oh!" he laughed, shook his head in bewilderment, and walked on.

Nice guy, I thought. Dim too.


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Author: Mark

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