Arse Wings

Thought for Thursady:

Is it just in Britain that the shops open only when one has absolutely no hope of getting to them? As I walk to work across town at 9 am, all the shops are coming to life. I walk past shoe shops, dry cleaners, department stores, kitchen shops, electrical retailers, bookshops. All of them are being unlocked by tired looking teenage girls with exposed midriffs, and those tattoos sprouting from the base of the spine that seem terribly popular now. My father calls them "arse wings". I suppose there is a recognised term, but I confess I don't know what it is. Incidentally, have you noticed how popular hose studs are again all of a sudden? Everyone had them in the 80s, then they went out of fashion. Now they suddenly seem to be the height of cool once more. But I digress...

I walk past these shops and I think to myself, "I must buy myself a new pair of shoes to go with those black trousers". But of course, I have a train to catch and I don't have time. And the point is, no one has any time at 9 am. Everyone is on their way to work, or getting their kids off to school, or if they don't have a job or kids, they're in bed. And ironically, when I walk past the same shops again at 6pm on my way back home, I do have time, but the teenage girls are by then lowering the shutters and talking excitedly on their mobile phones to boyfriends and girlfriends about where they should meet that evening.

It's the oddest thing I think. Why don't we let the teenagers have an extra two hours in bed? I bet the till in the shoe shop doesn't even open until lunchtime most days. Why not have them open at 11 am and close at 8pm. They can still get to the pub and party till 1. And they can then sleep until 10.30 the next day. Maybe they would drink a little less, have a proper breakfast, and we might even get better service.

The dragon seems to have found a new friend from the toddler group. That's not to say that her new friend is a toddler you understand, her friend is a toddler's mother of course. They seem to have found each other because they are both Chinese speakers. I suppose one should not be surprised that people with something in common seek each other out. I met her last night for the first time. She seems very nice, but her English is only about as good as my Chinese, which makes communication somewhere between difficult and hilarious. The new friend, I only know her Chinese name and I don't know how to write that in English, let's call her Sharon, it's a close approximation, suggested that we go to the Chinese fish seller together last night.

You need some background here. Firstly you have to realise that Chinese, and many neighbouring nations, don't really like fish that comes vacuum packed, filleted, skinned, descaled, and gutted. They like to see the whole thing, preferably still moving, before they judge whether it is a good buy. The Chinese fish seller comes to Swindon once every two weeks. He arrives in a fairly battered van, to a carpark, at around 7pm on Wednesdays. It is a fairly surreal scene. A carpark in the middle of Swindon is suddenly filled with several dozen oriental people, all speaking in their native languages, and waving fish around. I really hadn't expected to be the only white guy, but I was, apart from one other chap who, like me, was with an Asian woman. There were also a few Indian people.

Of course, as novices at purchasing fish from the back of a van, we elected to watch the old hands to get an idea of how it is done before doing anything that might possibly breach protocol. The first step appeared to be taking one's place in a fairly orderly line behind the van while the fish seller opened the rear door and pulled out a few plastic crates containing live crabs and other shellfish. I assumed that there was no hierarchy and that one's place in the line was simply determined by how fast one could get there. I'm not sure exactly what happened next. There may have been a verbal cue which I missed, but the people standing in the line suddenly surged forward as one, and I would guess about 50 people all attempted to get through a single door into a small van, already full of fish crates, at the same moment. I wouldn't call it pandemonium, but I wouldn't recommend letting anyone not equipped to look after themselves in an Eastend pub try it. The dragon elected to go and have a look at the shellfish on the pavement rather than wrestle with the crowd in the van. In fact she sent me in to investigate the van contents. And, gentleman that I am, I did.

I elbowed my way into the van. There was no other way to do it. I saw several women charge in, swinging fists and throwing small children behind them to slow down people following. Once inside, I had no idea what I was looking at. Well, I knew it was aquatic creatures of course, and I could even identify a crate of octopus, but everything else was just 'fish'. I selected a fairly plump fish that looked a little like George W Bush, and made a hasty exit. The dragon had selected some shrimp, and I grabbed one of the large crabs. A helpful lady told me in broken English that when selecting live crabs one should go for the ones with legs splayed. If they're balled up like a fist they are apparently not so fresh. This confused me as I had assumed that live crabs would automatically be fresh.

After the scrum in the van, the queue to pay was remarkably calm. The chap taking the money was British and appeared genuinely pleased to receive an English speaking customer. In case you're interested, the shrimp cost £5, the crab was £3, and George was £2. So after handing over my £10, we went home with our catch in a large plastic bag.

It turns out that George was in fact a girl fish, because she was full of eggs. The dragon was very pleased about this and I scored extra goody points I think. I cleaned it and removed the eggs, which were like long yellow condoms full of yoghurt. The dragon is apparently going to do something with the eggs today, but the rest of the fish went in the freezer with the shrimp. We left the crab in a bucket of water on the floor. He had expired by morning, but that is to be expected I think. I understand that the crab is destined for the pot this evening, though sadly I can't eat him because I'm allergic to crab. Oh the irony.