There's something about wood green that puts me on edge.
It has a rep in North London of being a bit rough; at least around the yummy mummy areas of Muswell Hill and Crouch End which both host small communities of posh people banished from the more affluent areas of London. No boutique bakeries and vintage clothes shops here: No, here it's a much more rough and ready collection of charity shops, phone shops and cheap diamonté studded clothing.
As I hop off of the W3, I'm smacked in the face with how busy it is, and how instantly the demographic of people has changed from a mile down the road. Kaftan klad muslim men buy unusual vegetables from Asian grocers, voluptuous black ladies with skinny teenage daughters heave shopping bags of clothes. Turkish ladies get their nails done by Chinese nail technicians. The flavour is distinctly multicultural and refreshingly loud.
There's an old man shouting bible passages at people as they pass the market hall, and a tramp sits outside the rammed Charcoal Grill asking people for change. I can smell waffles from a small hole-in-the-wall café near the shopping mall, hear police sirens further down the road.
I've come here to run errands; buy some big stuff from the big supermarket that I get ripped off on in the Tesco Express. Look at some phones. Wander around the sprawling mall that bridges over to the other side of the road.
My mood today is unemployment low. My head is full of cloudy nothings. No money no prospects and nothing to look forward to. I wander without purpose or energy.
I head to a small greasy spoon style café in the market hall. Me and Pete have been here for a mug of tea before and I liked the easy feel of the place. It's got some old-fashioned moth-eaten carpet against a cheap laminate floor, some basic tables and chairs and sugar in huge pouring pots. Despite the offers of all day breakfast and sandwiches, the flavour of this place is distinctly Turkish; I can see a huge spinach pie and some dolma behind the glass counter.
I search the counter hungrily and my eyes land on a generous brick of a cream slice. I know that it will be filled with that cheap cream-style filling and squeezy sauce style jam, but at the moment that's what I need. I compliment the sugar high with an equally indulgant hot chocolate. It tastes beautiful and is charmingly topped with squirty cream and chocolate sauce. This mood-lifting fat-hit is satisfyingly cheap and I relish my little relaxing carpet covered bench, watching the rain fall in sheets outside and reading my latest charity shop read.
This café is a place of comfort eats for my beat up soul. A nice place to escape the pretentiousness of 'artisan' bakers and highbrow coffee shops. I feel back in touch with my working-class roots. I feel clear-headed and comfortable.
A group of PCSOs come and sit down on the table opposite for a quick tea break and I take it as my que to leave. I'll be back; this place to me is a haven of simple pleasures.
It has a rep in North London of being a bit rough; at least around the yummy mummy areas of Muswell Hill and Crouch End which both host small communities of posh people banished from the more affluent areas of London. No boutique bakeries and vintage clothes shops here: No, here it's a much more rough and ready collection of charity shops, phone shops and cheap diamonté studded clothing.
As I hop off of the W3, I'm smacked in the face with how busy it is, and how instantly the demographic of people has changed from a mile down the road. Kaftan klad muslim men buy unusual vegetables from Asian grocers, voluptuous black ladies with skinny teenage daughters heave shopping bags of clothes. Turkish ladies get their nails done by Chinese nail technicians. The flavour is distinctly multicultural and refreshingly loud.
There's an old man shouting bible passages at people as they pass the market hall, and a tramp sits outside the rammed Charcoal Grill asking people for change. I can smell waffles from a small hole-in-the-wall café near the shopping mall, hear police sirens further down the road.
I've come here to run errands; buy some big stuff from the big supermarket that I get ripped off on in the Tesco Express. Look at some phones. Wander around the sprawling mall that bridges over to the other side of the road.
My mood today is unemployment low. My head is full of cloudy nothings. No money no prospects and nothing to look forward to. I wander without purpose or energy.
I head to a small greasy spoon style café in the market hall. Me and Pete have been here for a mug of tea before and I liked the easy feel of the place. It's got some old-fashioned moth-eaten carpet against a cheap laminate floor, some basic tables and chairs and sugar in huge pouring pots. Despite the offers of all day breakfast and sandwiches, the flavour of this place is distinctly Turkish; I can see a huge spinach pie and some dolma behind the glass counter.
I search the counter hungrily and my eyes land on a generous brick of a cream slice. I know that it will be filled with that cheap cream-style filling and squeezy sauce style jam, but at the moment that's what I need. I compliment the sugar high with an equally indulgant hot chocolate. It tastes beautiful and is charmingly topped with squirty cream and chocolate sauce. This mood-lifting fat-hit is satisfyingly cheap and I relish my little relaxing carpet covered bench, watching the rain fall in sheets outside and reading my latest charity shop read.
This café is a place of comfort eats for my beat up soul. A nice place to escape the pretentiousness of 'artisan' bakers and highbrow coffee shops. I feel back in touch with my working-class roots. I feel clear-headed and comfortable.
A group of PCSOs come and sit down on the table opposite for a quick tea break and I take it as my que to leave. I'll be back; this place to me is a haven of simple pleasures.
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