The situation: spending a weekend in London. Lots of my friends have moved to London. Emily, my interrail partner in crime – who has stared down a British neo-Nazi in a Viennese hostel as he watched us all night long, who was nearly mugged in Berlin by scam artists pretending to be fundraising for deaf-blind charities, who was nearly kidnapped in Munich by errant drunken Americans – has moved to London. I am poor and rarely get to go up to London. So, going up for the weekend, I planned to see her, and we planned to go to this great flower market she’d told me about.
Obviously she’d spent Saturday night getting heinously drunk and was too hungover to go to the market. So, after a trip to Cockfosters because I’m massively immature, I went via the Columbia Road Flower Market before going to soothe her ‘oh my God I’m going to die’ feeling with tales of hilarious/grim drunken Countdown debauchery the previous weekend. Not that we’re binge drinkers or anything. Here is what you can expect to find at the market, which FYI is completely rammed: