Cold in Kebabylon

‘Seven quid? Bloody ‘ell. What do I get for that then?’

‘Well, my fine fellow…’ I don’t say. I’m thinking it though. I think a lot of things, whilst wearing my special Dealing With The Public smile.

‘You get free-range chicken. Blythburgh pork. Pitta bread which I baked myself last night. Tzatziki made with mint I grew in the garden. For two Great British pounds less, however, you could go over there and have a cheap old sausage in a dry roll from the cash and carry.’

He glances over at sausage lady who is wearing a ‘comedy’ outfit (the only thing she could find in her van to combat the cold, apparently) and having a fag.

‘Er, maybe I’ll live a little,’ he says, counting out his change.

I despair. Not least because sausage lady probably makes way more money than us. Good food costs money. If you want high quality produce, it costs more. Simple, innit. Perhaps I’m doing it wrong; nipping to Bookers for a box of buns would be far easier than all the kneading, rolling out of dough and hoovering up of flour.

I try not to mind. People can’t help it. We’re off to Essex for an event soon. While the Greek God tries to blend in and goes all ‘geezer’, I find my inner Joanna Lumley spontaneously erupts.

‘We do try not to use the ‘K’ word,’ I’ll chirp cheerily through gritted teeth as I stand out in sub-zero winds, wearing ALL my clothes at once and lamenting the thread veins that no one mentioned in the Street Food for Dummies manual.

‘So it’s just a kebab then, yeah? For seven quid? Rip-orf…’

It was a dreadful rip-off. I might have that inscribed on my headstone when I’ve died of hypothermia, hurty knees and baker’s lung. It’s cold in Kebabylon.

Dressing it up…

I’ve always dreamed about being the sort of girl who dresses ‘vintage’.  I still believe that, one day,  I could look like the girl from the Timotei adverts.   Showing my age or what?

I like to think I’m the arty type but, really, I’m more Kirsty Allsop than Timotei.  It’s a tragic confession, I know.

At the start of this foodie lark, we’d smile while chucking on knackered old sweatshirts to set up our stand.  ‘We’re artisan, right?’ we’d console ourselves.

Oh yes.  We’re so artisan it hurts.  F**cking artisan, we laugh, as our seams disintegrate around us.  ‘These don’t need need ironing, do they?’ asks the Greek God, waving  crumpled shirts about.  He still has half a proper job.  He compromises by ironing the bits that show; ironed sleeves poking out of a tank top.

What do true foodies wear?  What if I’m not wearing the right stuff to be successful?!  In a bid to look the part,  I *may* have ordered a vintage leather jacket on eBay.  I can see it now: butter-soft honey-coloured jacket, faded battered jeans and unfeasibly long silver earrings.  I’ll be slimmer and – shut up! – taller too when my parcel arrives.

Vintage will be my thing, now I’m rocking artisan fashion.  It’ll be a trend, you’ll see… what could go wrong?

The Professionals