A small market near Camden Town tube station, that only sells fresh produce (I avoid the market at Camden Lock, which has become a horrible tourist trap). London costermongers traditionally sell apples and pears – the word coster comes from the name of an apple. They are a close fraternity with their own language (cockney rhyming slang). Henry Mayhew, in his 1861 book London Labour and the London Poor (one of my favourite books) said that all a costermonger’s sons would follow their father into the trade (presumably daughters as well these days, although I didn’t see any barrow girls during this visit).
I took lots of photographs, but very few are presentable. I was using a cheap throwaway camera (bought in Tescos), and the light settings were limited. Anyway, you get a sense of the November gloom – it was dark even in the middle of the day.
Said to two female office workers, wandering about in their lunchbreak: “Peaches luv?”
“No thanks.”
“Go on, ’ave some peaches.”
“No thanks” (giggling) “…I bet they’re all bruised anyway.”
“They’re not bruised – on my life. Take them down the hospital and have them x-rayed if you don’t believe me.”
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