One of my favourite places on this earth? Market places. I just love wandering around markets. Not the second-hand flea markets and art bazaars - although browsing through crates of records can make this Fred happy too, but genuine markets. Be it at home or abroad, nothing beats watching people, sampling food and buying fresh ingredients for a more than decent price. I even enjoy the hours of politely queueing at the vegetable stall - balancing on that fine line between being a gentleman and lacking a healthy form of assertiveness - when I am constantly cut in front by pink-haired older ladies holding a crossing between a rat and a dog wearing a plastic jacket underneath their arm...
Personally, visiting a market place gives me a sense of reality - which comes in quite handy after a tiresome week of exploring the back of my mind, searching for answers to problems which are further from reality than umbrellas made from sponge. It makes me feel relaxed, despite the fact that market places are buzzing with activity. I would even say that it makes me feel connected with real life, as it gives me a chance to blend in with everybody else. Not just real life as it is today, but as it always was and will always be: I find it comforting to know that man has always met at market places.
Speaking about meeting people, last weekend I was at the super version of a market. Which doesn't beat the real market, let that be clear, but wandering around super markets also qualifies as something I like to do. When it's not too crowded, that is. I was scanning my stuff, at one of these little computers that looks a bit like a copier, when the cute supervising shop assistant in charge of the self-scanning devices tapped my shoulder. "Excuse me," she said, "is this yours?". An elegant arm holding canned television sausages was stretched in my direction. "Erhm, not really!", I blurted out - somewhat taken aback by the fact that this lovely woman was addressing me. As a single, being addressed by strangers is good for the confidence - especially when they are of the opposite sex and rather pretty, but not when they are offering you a can of processed meat. Still, my manly mind was racing, and so I added: "Too bad it weren't roses, that would have been nice!". I was cursing myself ("Roses? You dork, that's the biggest cliché ever!" "Yeah, but still, it's your favourite dEUS track, remember?") but she smiled at me and asked "What would it mean, you'd say, if someone left a can of sausages on my desk?".
Classical example of a plan back-firing.
A few milliseconds seemingly turned themselves into silent minutes.
"Hm. You could announce it through the speakers," I suggested, "asking the person who left his sausages at the self-scanning counter to see the cashier." A perfect long-distance pass went over the attacker's heads. We both smiled. Hers was teasingly pinkish, mine stiffly greenish. On the way home, I was thinking about canned sausages and why anyone would leave them behind, having deliberately picked them up from the shelf in the first place. Above all, I was wondering whether or not to go back inside.
They do sell roses in the super market, you know...
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