No no, you’re supposed to haggle!
Today I spent some quality time at the Deptford Market. That’s in Deptford, South East London.
This thrice-weekly street market reminds me of nothing so much as China. Or Brazil. It’s also been compared to Fiji…I think you see what I’m getting at. It’s a little piece of the developing world, but within easy walking distance of the Docklands Light Railway.
And it’s totally awesome.
I don’t get much out of the plastic home goods, the marked-down groceries, the piles of rotting fish, or the designer knock-offs (though I did buy a maxi dress…I’m “being the trend” at a fraction of the price!). It’s all interesting to look at, but I wouldn’t want most of it in my house…plus I started to hear arguments break out about incorrect change–slightly frightening.
No, the highlight of the Deptford Market for me is turning left off the high street and entering the peripheral market, which is all “home goods”.
By “home goods” I mean goods from people’s homes. Literally. It is roughly divided into three broad categories: furniture, electrical goods, books/CDs/DVDs. Well, not DVDs. Mostly VHS.
All of it is dusty and none of it is organised. The electrical goods consist of tables piled high with old appliances, rotary phones, miscellaneous bits of plastic. I can’t believe any of it has been stolen, because, seriously, who would bother stealing it? I nearly left with an old Casio portable keyboard, but sense got the better of me in the end, and I left it there.
The books are the best part though. More piles, disorganised, although I’m convinced that there is some sort of order to the thing. They aren’t in alphabetical order, or subject order, or even paperback and hardback. However, each box could potentially be the library of one household. There might be some travel books, golf books, and a few books in French. Or some old and new sci-fi grouped together, with the occasional ‘chick-lit’ thrown in.
Which brings me to my main theory about this bazaar: I think the items are contents of the houses of people who have either died or been put into a care home. In the absence of family (or perhaps the presence of a family that had no use for a black and white TV), everything was carted away by movers, and it all ended up in Deptford.
A macabre theory, perhaps, but the pile of old books, by far the newest of which being “How to Die Well” didn’t repudiate it.
But anyway, who cares! Every book is 50p. No matter what it is. I have come away with hard bound books that look like they’ve just come from Waterstone’s and been read once (maybe). For 50p!!!
Knowing how cheap it all is drives me into some kind of frenzy when I go there. I must sift through the entire network of tables. I must look at every book and decide if I want it. I already had far more books than I could have read by the end of this year (or next year) when I came away with a collection of Agatha Christie novels, beautifully bound into a single volume and almost new. How much did it cost? 50p!! I didn’t even need to break a note!
I think anyone who has been there would agree that Deptford is dodgy/possiby dangerous/a bit of a hole/not somewhere to be alone at night. But the cheap books at the Deptford Market make me glad I live basically next door.
