The anticipation of pleasure

Every so often I indulge myself. And tomorrow is just such a day. For tomorrow I am going to Portobello Market.

And first, tonight, I am going to an exhibition of one of my favourite artists. What am I talking about, one of? She is my favourite artist, ever. And then to stay in Notting Hill in my sisters flat.

I grew up in this area of central west London and lived there until I was thirteen. We lived in a big house: my mum and I had the ground and basement floors, my Aunt and Uncle and my four cousins had the floors above. My bedroom had 20’ ceilings, and on the floorboards you could still see the deep scratches the soldiers billeted in the house at the time of the Crimea had made to mark out their sleeping areas. They were crammed in. For me that house stands for what remains the happiest time of my life. And every other Saturday my Uncle would take whichever of us children was about (often including the artist, above) with him on a shopping and swimming expedition to Portobello market to buy the fruit and veg for the next week. My mum would do it on the other Saturdays, but that meant walking and just me and no swim and was not nearly so much fun.

Porchester Baths are now very posh and doubtless expensive, but then they were a little bit run down, although still vast and exciting and echoey. To us, it seemed normal to go to Turkish Baths simply for a swim. I remember my uncle being very frustrated with me once because I was being a chicken and wouldn’t get in. So he chucked me in. He knew I could swim, I didn’t. As I was running by, doubtless screaming my little head off with excitement, he stuck out a hip and in I sailed. It was the start of turning me into a pretty good swimmer. One of my cousins is just three months younger than me and we were inseparable. Many people thought we were twins. Swimming with someone your own age, as a child, is just bliss. And so these Saturdays became a highlight of my young life. Then, dry and smelling of chlorine, we would climb back into the red Volvo and head off to the market.

It’s difficult now, in my memory, to separate the modern market from the one in the 60’s that we used to go to (more the original ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’ than ‘Notting Hill’). I know the antiques bit was smaller then, and more ‘car boot’ quality than it is now, and to a boy like me was terribly dull. But the fruit and veg bit was great. The stall-holders were the embodiment of the cheeky cockney, friendly, cheerful and full of warm good humour. And although now I go to seek antiques, I still get a special joy from walking among the greengrocer’s stalls.

We would stock up and pile back into the car to be home in time for lunch. On the way back we would play the driving game. We would call out a direction to turn at the next junction and my Uncle had to take that way. Then he had a go. The aim for us was to prolong the journey for as long as possible. For him, it was to get us home for lunch. He always won. But sometimes we prolonged the pleasure.

And tomorrow, I shall be continuing to prolong that pleasure by walking some of those streets, enjoying scrambled egg on toast at my favourite café, feeling more at home than I do anywhere in the world, and remembering the happiest days of my life. I can’t wait.