Let me explain:
Rick is a fellow worker of the market and he has a permanent stall up near the entrance. Working at this market I've met the most interesting characters I ever thought I would meet. Rick is this delinquent and hilarious but kinda pervy guy and he sells army green messenger bags with some screen-printed designs on them, as well as little button-badges and some t-shirts and cartoon prints too. I first met him when I got back from the US and resumed my weekends on Brick Lane. Chelsea introduced me to a fellow she had met in my absence named George (who has since become one of our main cohorts) and from George we met a slew of other interesting folks.
After market it's customary for all the stall owners to go around the corner to a pub called the Pride of Spitalfields. One Sunday evening a group of these ragamuffins went to the Pride where I became acquainted with Rick, a somewhat-one-eyed chap named Vinnie, and an artist called Lewis.
Now that we've been at market for a couple of months Chane has achieved a "permanent" stall (duh duh Daaaahh!) snuggled right in between this Rick and Lewis, up at the front by George. It's a delightful spot to be in because when it's a slow day I get to watch Rick wandering around doing anything other than watch his stall, George might come to a dance for me to the wild tribal music blasting outside, or I can lean over through the curtain and watch Lewis sketch robots underwater.
Seriously, Rick is NEVER at his stall. As Lewis puts it "He kind of walks in, stakes out a spot and starts chatting to whatever bird he can get to listen, and sets up his stall kind of periodically throughout the day." Last week two people approached me wanting to actually buy his stuff and he was literally no where in sight.. I sold it for him and he was overjoyed.
So, back to this Sunday:
I was running a little late so had called George to throw a sheet over my stall so it wouldn't be taken. Then as I'm setting up, I realize I don't have a chair - on a hungover Sunday that might be the worst fate imaginable. I start to scout out the warehouse for an available seat and I remember that I've walked by Rick's stall and it's not set up yet, so he must not be here... muhaha... there are plenty of people milling about so I figure I can sneak back there, grab the chair, and save my feet/tush/sanity from an inevitable torture. Right as I get it out of the stall and I'm rolling backwards towards mine (cause my Sunday stall is a couple aisles back), I hear from behind me, "Are you knickin Rick's chair?" Me: "Nooo... don't tell, ok Lewis?? He's not here yet, and you know he's never even at his stall anyways! He won't even notice, and I'll just DIE if I can't sit down today." Lewis is like "Oh I'm not keeping that secret.. if he doesn't have it, he'll just bitch and moan and complain and that's all I'll hear all day. I can't believe you're knickin' Rick's chair." Ha but he's kind of kidding, so I nervously continue to my stall and rejoice in my success.
Halfway through the day I started to forget that I'd stolen it and drop my guard as I take a break to wander through the market, perusing all the crafts and fashions I do not need to purchase. Then as I turn to face my stall again, there he is!! That sneaky bastard has crawled under my table and snatched it back!!
I was like WHAT are you doing?
Rick: You bloody knicked my chair and I'm getting it back, that's what I'm doing!
Me: But wha- How did- did Lewis tell you??
Rick: No, I went lookin around the whole f%*&in market for it, that's what I did! Can't believe you bloody knicked my chair.
Me: Rick noooo! But I NEED that chair!
Ha I felt like my life would end without that. The hangover was still quite strong. The whole thing was pretty comical though.
Then, So I'm standing there behind my stall (ugggh, my legs!) reading a pamphlet of artists from an exhibition across the street when I realize that someone is standing in front of me. I look up, and, it's my friend Adam! Yayyyyy, someone has come to save me from being depressed about losing my chair!!!
Adam's like "Hey, how's it going. Have you seen George's mouse?" I'm like, "What, George has a mouse?? What on Earth could you be talking about."
I go visit George's stall and, sure enough, there is a little teeny tiny sweet baby mouse behind him, along the ledge... it's a little bit trapped back there, but it's still strange to me that it wasn't running around and trying to escape. It was like it had found George and decided that he would be his mother. George was happy to take on this role. In my subsequent visits I would find George on his Blackberry scouring Google for something like "what to feed a baby mouse that I found and looks kind of sickly." It's true, by the time we left, things weren't looking up for the little mousey.
This being Chelsea's last Sunday in London before heading back stateside, we decided to hang out in the area for awhile because there's nothing like Brick Lane on a Sunday. We saw a Mexican place (rare around these parts) and decided some margaritas might be in store. Except George ordered a Sex on the Beach because he wanted to "ask for sex on the beach." Whatever.
We're sitting there sipping on margs and gnawing on nachos (gnaw-chos, if you will) and this little Conrad-esque pup comes through the open door and settles next to the wall by our table. We're all like, "Ey pup, whatcha doin here?" And I'm doing the Conrad-whistle like it's a universal Jack Russell thing that this one will know. His owner comes in and is trying to whisk him away, but the thing backs right up to George's chair and won't budge - I'm not kidding, won't budge a freaking inch. The ownder has to leave and come back with the dog's leash and literally drag him across the floor and out the door. We're like, George, what are you doing to these animals? He was like a saint or martyr that these sick and depressed animals seek before they can let themselves go comfortably into the next life... it was really pretty weird.
So now George is Dr. Dolittle, and that explains the title of this entry.
I'll go study now.
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