Alun Hughes Come Hither and Thou Shalt be Nourished

At twenty past ten, a subdued yet expectant procession was seen making its way up from the Waitrose car park in the early December dreic, pushing schedules and clutching lists, for caffeinated rendezvous and harvesting the not to be missed. The week was over and time was proving kinder for the seekers and, of course, for the lost. 

And laid out before them since sunrise was…    

Bread pastry falafel bread pastry, veggies and meat from the ‘good farm’. Thai street and dog food that’s cool, Portugese tarts and veg again, then veg again and veg again, until the eggs at last, eggs at last, doughnuts, doughnuts, Christmas wreaths, mushroom fungi mushrooms, burgers and meat in a crate. Then worthy plants and beer and milk, socks and bread, more bread, so much more pastry and cakes, wine, wine, a sip of wine, a secular communion looked over by the artisan smith. More veggies and tools to dig them with in knitwear, knitwear, vegan, Indian, street food, sheepskins and cheap Slovakian spoons.

Then under the cover of junkie square, where empty Nurishment cans rattle round in the opiate winds of the week… 

Chocolate vegans and apple bright, the sun never sets at Days Cottage. Then Clover of course, tinkling away near the cheese from Godsells, God sells the cheese, God sells… Pasties, tiny, pricey pasties, meat, meat, stained glass and frightfully good bacteria, for bellies, for beer, for more meat and bread. Pies, pies and micro greens, scotch eggs and yes, more meat with cider and wine, pottery to put it in. Aroma    therapy   soap. Cheese again, smoked anything, then saucisson, honey, candles and cake.

Surveying it all, like the hub of a wheel, the buddha of pet shop corner, the queue at Rosie’s olive stall.

They have come in shabby chic with whippets, or appropriate anoraks and good woolened children, the new breeders converge with baby slings, reassuring each other of their provincial choice. They have faithfully ploughed the elders’ equity into the ground of this anytown and here, they make it their own, until two o’clock when the natives return for the week, to the rain drenched streets, the chazzers, the beggars and the damned. But for now at least, the colony’s fed, with an authenticity that few could afford, bar the Privileged Republic and its revolution, that nobody wanted to notice, was actually long since dead.