Hackney Fudge

   On Saturday there was a collection of street stalls along the main shopping strip near where I am staying in Hackney. Many of the proprietors had set up trestle tables outside of the shops with hot food, cakes and soft toys for sale. I wandered, rather desultorily, along the street, the chill December wind whipping up coattails and tablecloths and dead leaves. 
   I picked up a soft toy rabbit at one stall. A gushing middle-aged woman behind the table told me it was really good quality and that it was made by a local women's group. She pointed at a sign at the end of the table, which read: 'Womyn's Kollective'. This horrible distortion of the language prompted me to fling the rabbit back onto the table amongst the rest of the overpriced tat. I then moved on to the next table, which was manned by the street's gay Thai hairdresser. His stall had an array of confectionary, which was, he assured me, "Made by my very own little hands." He talked me through the goods on display: the choc-mint slices; the rum balls; the toffee delights. 
   "And my speciality - caramel fudge! That is what I am famous for!" I selected a jar of the fudge, and something else. He rummaged under the table for a paper bag. 
   "I have the hairdresser's shop just down there," he told me.
   "Yes," I replied, "I've seen you through the window. 
   "Oh, really? I hope I was behaving myself?"
   "Yes, you were - for once!" He laughed and extended a narrow hand for me to shake. "And perhaps you will come in one day to let me loose on your head?"
   "We'll see," I said as I walked away, "We'll see."

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