My friend runs a market stall outside the post office in Chorlton. Every so often I pop down and help him out – usually by trying on all the sunglasses or buying stock from other people’s stalls (mostly Plant Pot Pete whose impressive array of plants is feeding my cactus obsession).
When he’s not delboy, he’s a musician. Between us, it’s the source of a lot of media wanky related jokes “yah yah yah” “sure sure sure” “I’m like, just off to a party”. Not to mention the resurrection of my favourite game ‘Band or Dickhead?’ where you guess if the skinny jean-clad Gallagher type walking towards you is actually in a band or just dresses like he is.
Saturdays on the stall are a good distraction from the mundane realities of everyday life. There’s always someone to chat to and there’s no time to think when you’re too busy having a laugh.
One day, I briefly got chatting to a group of musicians who’d popped by to say hello. I was on my way into a nearby cafe so I offered them a cuppa. When I came back, they were chatting intently, so I did my best waitress impression, put the tea down, left them to it and went off to play Tetris on my phone by the stall.
It turns out, those lovely men were the Doves.