For most of my adult life Sunday and any other day have been indiscernible. Life of an artist- treat every day of the week as a workday, or every day like a Sunday. More often than not it’s the Sunday I write the most to hit a Monday deadline. It’s the Sunday show I’d give a matinee and evening performance. When my boss asked if I was okay to work Sundays, I had to process the question. It wasn’t until working Walthamstow market I realised what he was actually asking- do you have a family- do you need to spend your Sunday with someone- are you in the grand scheme of the universe, surplus to requirements?

The Victoria line is mostly empty, with the exception of Saturday night partygoers making pillows of their friends shoulders. I sip thick, homemade coffee that burns my throat from a keep cup from that was gifted to me by the production company that employed me a year and a half ago- The cup has a company logo and the words- Keep hanging in there! At this point, half the words are missing. Kee ing ere! I bring out my notebook and try to find something to write about, but recently no singular thought has been at the forefront of my mind- nothing other than- earn.

I’ll arrive and set up the stall and make the display. At Walthamstow there are roughly thirty or so wide cardboard boxes holding bread and pastries- five loaves/twenty pastries a box. After putting the contents on display I run my finger across the side of a box and rip the glue from the corner. Rip, Rip, flip, rip, rip, flip, fold, repeat, and place in a box, keep placing till that box is filled with folded boxes. A cardboard chiropractor, finding spots and releasing tension. My body however, resents me simply for moving.

The energy of customers causes my body to photosynthesise. When it comes to this Shit Job, I’m embarrassingly adept. Enough months have passed for me to have built up a steady list of regulars. By March my body constantly moves to serve a queue, dancing in time to the rhythm of the retail. I’ve given my number to those asking to hold loaves back. I have faces linked to orders. Church goer with his dad-Chocolate roll and Pan Choc. Man who only says- boom- White sliced loaf. The family who contemplate eating pastries when they’ll be on holiday soon, That ‘soon’ being four months away- Four cinnamon buns. Family of three who get a loaf and cheese straws each. Mum who gets needs wholemeal bread for her son with Eczema- two sliced brown loaves. My first customer every week- Almond and Pan choc for his partner who wont’ wake up for another hour yet. Man with beard and no hair. Seeded loaf. Woman with the same reusable bread bag she’s had since 2001, Pumpernickel Rye. Elderly posh couple, cinnamon buns. Elderly not posh couple, cinnamon buns. Young posh couple, jalepeno cornbread muffins, young not posh couple, jalepeno cornbread muffins. Almost everyone that visits my stall is buying for more than themselves. It reminds of walking through Brooklyn at the crack of dawn to get bagels and lox. The cold air and bright sun bouncing off the wide grey sidewalk, I shake the memory off before it begins to sting.

I wear a nice jumper with a nice shirt collar tucked over the top with jeans every shift here in the small chance Nicola returns, but I haven't seen her in since the day we bumped into each other. A woman, looking a little lost, turns up at the stall. She has a cropped hoodie that exposes her midriff. That alone turns me on. She says she’s scouting this location for a film she’s making, no doubt led to Walthamstow market thinking it’ll be Notting Hill Market, but instead of seeing vintage second hand books and bumping into Hugh Grant she’s having to make do with cheap thongs, phone cases and, me. I give her a croissant as a welcome her to the city, and to myself. Sean. Michelle. As we’re talking I can feel the eyes of Milky on me, and a couple of people join the queue for bread. She asks what other parts of London are worth seeing. I try to list specific places that are nice, but all that pops into my head is Hampstead. Hampstead Heath, Hampstead, West Hampstead, and before I know it a customer asks what the Potato and Polenta sourdough is like and she’s vanished.

Every three weeks a new stall is given a spot on the market. This week is an organic feminist themed desert stand. Each slice of cake is homemade. Vegan. Gluten Free. Artisanal. Low in sugar. Beautiful to look at. Six quid. Per slice. Minimum. The girl operating the stall is also the baker. She’s built up a following on instagram, but none of her followers have turned up, and my heart breaks for her every time a Walthamstow resident kisses their teeth at her prices and proceeds to stroll into a Lidl cruelly less than fifty feet away.

She doesn’t have a gazebo, and the wind tunnel seems to be particularly aggressive towards her, as if the elements have found the market’s fawn. On top of the elements there’s The Weirdo. He’s a man who turns up to bother only the women that work on the market. The Market manager is often missing and it’s up to me, Milky and Danny on the veg stall to shoo him away. I catch him asking about the Virginia Wolf Cheesecake. I walk up to him and wince, he knows who he his to me, and leaves. She looks at me confused and after I explain his m.o. She puts her hands on the stall to steady her own anger “It’s not that he’s a creep, I thought I had a customer” I shoo him again before the market closes. On the second time she offers me a free piece of cake. Each one has a bright, almost unnatural quality to it, I’m reminded of the bugs Timon and Pumba eat in Lion King. I ask her to pick, she hands me her personal favourite, the Maya Angelou Tiramisu.

Markets closed, there’s still have a significant amount of stock. I use the one box I didn’t break down and stuff it with leftovers and take it to the nearby library, where all the traders go for the loo. The librarians treat me like the patron saint of pastries, and while I enjoy the compliments, I feel a sense of guilt for gifting what any other trader puts in a bin bag. I get back and take the stall apart. Remove the weights. Take apart tables. Clean utensils. Put everything else in grey boxes and finally take down the gazebo itself. Every gazebo in London seems to have it’s own annoying quirks but I’ve finally managed to tame mine, whipping it down in the fashion of a cruel ballet teacher. Driver arrives and we heave it onto the van, as it drives away, Michelle appears. So, where’s Hampstead?

It’s a typical London spring. Every few hours the clouds part for a quick exhale before submerging us back into grey. We’re in the reprieve. Dappled under the massive trees in St John’s church courtyard. I ask about the film, Michelle focuses instead on the relationship with her producer. How their friendship has corroded. Maybe Barcelona is a better fit. “As long as we’re in… Europe” I ask about the story. She tells me about life in New Orleans, the dancing and fun but lack of depth. It dawns on me that enquiring over the film would break the fourth wall of the movie she’s shooting right now. Living fiction. We saw it in each other the moment we locked eyes- two bullshitters that if we try hard enough can pretend it’s possible to fall in love at Walthamstow Market. Michelle says she’s hungry and asks what I’ve got in my bag and it’s at that moment I realise I’ve been miscast. This isn’t someone I can share my Maya Angelou Tiramisu with.

Kenwood House. Highgate ponds. Parliament Hill Skyline. Vintage shops along Flask Walk. Why, out of all the places we could’ve gone, did I bring her to St Johns? The place I visit on Mondays to talk in a circle. Where I listen to people who’ve cascaded entire lives into oblivion and inch-by-inch attempt to get build an honest life. I ride the train home with my keep cup in hand, looking at the faded letters, wondering if they’ll kee ing ere with me for the rest of the Sundays I need.