On Friday I was wandering, in the sunshine, through the market. The stalls were bright, cheerful and welcoming with flags and balloons dancing in the breeze. The stall holders were calling to each other and to the passers by. I hovered around one or two stalls; the smell of the olives, so many different varieties, drew me in and then I was hooked. I dallied around the cheese counter, eyed up the crusty fresh bread, the brioche and the croissants and then the intricately plaited bunches of garlic which nestled at the side of the rich red strawberries and luscious looking asparagus. I moved on to the Breton biscuits; they had those tasty butter ones and the gorgeous prune tart. Mmm. The crepe stand was doing excellent business, a crepe and a coffee was just the thing for lunch. I sat at the table watching people drifting from stall to stall. The sun was warm the food was tasty and the most wonderful thing was the smell of the cut lavender on the stall opposite – it was warm, heady and sensual. I drifted away into a gentle reverie “Bonjour Madam” said the man serving the crepes, “c’est tout?” enquired the woman on the biscuit stall as she weighed out biscuits for her customers.
Then, all of a sudden I was jolted out of my dream. “Ey-up duck, where’s tha bin?”
“Up Marks, shug, ar’t catchin’t bus home?”.
Oh no, drat, I wasn’t in Brittany at all, but on Piccadilly, Hanley. Still, it was nice while it lasted.