Am I a paranoid narcissist?

On my way down the A1 I pondered the meaning of this phrase which was uttered by some pontificating criminologist in connection with the late Mister Moat as though it explained something. It didn't explain anything of course: it was just word play designed to demonstrate the sheer cleverness of the person who uttered it.

What does the expression mean?

Paranoid: worried about what other people were thinking about him.

Narcissist: self centred.

Which clearly describes most politicians and most experts, including, of course, the guy that used the phrase.

I am obviously one too, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this blog.

The Scent of Bacon & Piss.

There must have been much revelry last night. A scent of fresh urine hangs in the air mingling with that of frying bacon from the tea waggon. The bells of the churches clatter and clang.

Chuckling Colin, the second in command Toby, arranges for a cleaner to slosh disinfectant about. Nina, my neighbour who sells tea towels and aprons, and I scrub the cobbles with a brush and manage to clean up effectively and get to start on the day's trading.

I can't help lapsing into weather talk, the English conversational default position, but I have to say that it's cold and grey this morning and, along with the aforementioned stinks, the day feels depressingly uninspiring. I find myself looking at the Great Saint Mary's Church and the gorgeous pinnacles of King's College for help. Ecclesiastical architecture always helps me cope. I will lift up mine eyes to the hill whence cometh my help. It's that kind of feeling. Strange how it contrasts with the shudder of nausea that I get when walking back from parking my car and hear the Evangelical noises that emanate from one of the churches I always pass: guitars, cymbals, jollity, clapping, laughter, the door left open so that us poor wretched sinners can hear the the Worship of the Lord. One of these days I might actually throw up at this crass, infantile lobotomised, exhibitionist, style of relating to the Mysteries of the Universe.

Apologies... I was moving towards a full blown rant there. Count to ten, 'arry.

In the afternoon the Sun peeps out and it becomes warm. We collectively cheer up.I snap a few pics:

2. Ben of 'Cafe Mobile' at the controls.

1. The American Lady who runs the Music stall who his delightful, vivacious and helpful.

3. The view from my stall mid-afternoon.

'Just another day on Earth'

Early Sunday morning. Stare at my tea. Stupor.

Willpower gets me out the door.

The spring air is moist, fragrant, laced with bird song. I breathe it in. It feels more like a drink of fresh water when you're thirsty. I'm jolted into wakefulness. Think God it's so beautiful!
I start up the motor. The chunky revving of the diesel engine is reassuring, a solid noise, a going to work noise that chases away the spindly fears of the night.

On the eastern horizon the sun is a smudge of pink. As I pass Eaton Grange a muntjac scuttles into the hedge. No one else on the road until I reach the A1. There's little traffic there: the odd rusty Tranny heading for a Sunday gaff, a Hamburger waggon or two, a BMW hurtling south at high speed. I turn on the radio. The religious programme on R4. It's all Easter stuff and paedo priests. I turn off the radio in case it taints the day. Listen instead to 'The Astounding Eyes of Rita', Middle Eastern music featuring oud, bass clarinet and various other instruments. Sinuous, curving, melancholy ecstatic music.

As I pass Stamford I peel the foil off my breakfast sandwich and savour it: smoked salmon, salad in gritty brown bread. I sip jasmine tea from my thermos cup. A little ritual. Don't allow myself this pleasure until I see the spires of Stamford churches. Consider one of the ironies of my life: I love old churches but loathe the singsong pontifications of priests and clergymen. Or should that be clergypersons?

Little pleasures. Finding a parking space on Jesus Lane. Church bells celebrating Easter. Talking to Greg about music. Drinking a coffee from his little waggon. Talking to Mike who sells treen about the geology of Leicester. Did you realise that granite is radioactive? Chatting to some students with that braying upper class accent that can be rather grating, about philosophy. Nietzsche's being taught now, you know, one of them tells me. The sun shining. Eating my couscous salad after sprinkling some hot chili sauce over it. Selling one of pewter repousse Sharon's Green Men. Packing up without a hitch. Driving home without the diversion through Huntingdon that made me late home last week. Listening to 'Pick of the Week' on R 4.

And then arriving in my local -The Wheel Inn- licking my lips in anticipation and drinking a nice hoppy bitter and eating their superb home made chips served with their delicious home made ketchup. Exchanging banter with a few other customers. Meeting Sharon, John and Thomas there.

Little pleasures adding up to a feeling that this day was a good day, another day on earth that was worth living and enjoying.

p.s Treen?

When I started this blog I set myself a rule: no whingeing. I need to amend that slightly. No personal whingeing. Which leaves me free to whinge on behalf of others.

Yeasterday [ I like that misspelling, rather Joycean don't you think? Used the day after one's been on the beer?]... sorry, yesterday afternoon small knots of traders gathered here and there, glum, whingeing. Whingeing, softly, gently,bitterly, viciously, [ I'm a fan of adverbs, parentheses and ellipses, by the way]. Whingeing with good reason, which is why I report it. Trade was poor despite the delightful spring weather. Stallholders with excellent goods for sale, many locally produced such as our own, were just not taking enough money to earn a living. This concerns me. It's part of a general decline of markets in this country. For years market trading has offered a niche for people like myself who, for whatever reason, don't like being employees of large organisations whether they be corporate or public sector. We thrive as people when in a position to be ourselves with all our idiosyncrasies and eccentricities and thereby contribute to the richness of the social world: the 'Dickensian Dimension'. Without us there wouldn't be much colour in the world. We're the raw material! Artists, poets, novelists, songsmiths need us!

Politicians come round markets before elections [Norman Tebbit, do you remember going round Leicester Market? All those fruit and veg traders jeering? On yer bike, Norman, on yer bike...]. I hope they come round this year. I really would like to talk to them. I've plenty to get off my chest.

Markets are part of the still rich ecology of urban life. Those that survive still offer colour and some kind of reality that Supermarkets and Malls will never be able to provide. Those corporate spaces are a Hell Realm to those who value personal freedom and individuality, zones for the generation of landfill and alienation. Avoid them! Come back down to the market!