The scales were, old and coppery: the bowl sat
ponderously in its holder, rather like a cat
would ease itself into a cardboard box
an inch or two too small for it. The hand
had a pleasingly pointed arrow with which
it indicated numbers on a yellowed face.
William showed me how to bag the apricots,
in different weights—quarter, half and whole
kilos—then the lentils, also grown in Turkey:
brown ones, red (of course) and black (new
to me). Many apricots ended up in my mouth.
Custom was slow. William’s mate, Trevor,
an environmentalist who specialised in shite,
was the only regular. I played a tape of Revolver
then a ‘best of’ Nina Simone. I put on weight.