A toaster, a toaster, my kingdom for a fucking toaster.

"Listen mate, I am not paying 200 fucking quid for a fire poker even if King George III did use it to scratch his arse once. Anyway you just made that up didn't you?"

"Heh yeah - sorry I thought you were American - what are you after?"

"I am looking for a toaster."

"This is an antiques market!"

"I am aware of that and an over priced one at that."*

"Hmm toaster eh? You'd be lucky. Old Dan down there might be able to help you out"

Well "Old Dan" wasn't there was he. Gone for lunch or a wank or something - I don't know. He had left a surly teenage urchin in guard with strict instructions not to sell anything or be helpful in anyway at all. Anyway "Old Dan" only had one toaster it was a clapped out circa 1950 beaten up plastic one. No doubt a classic in its time but in the state it is in now you could tell that as soon as you plugged it in it is clearly going to either a) not work, b) immediately burn your house down. I have a bit of a penchant old things* a few nicks and dents add character - I like the fact they have had a life before they have come into my temporary possession. But when it comes to electronics it has to be brand spanking new - in a box - with a guarantee.

I like the shops and market around where I live. But there are times in my life when I don't to want to buy an object de art lamp stand that is clearly going to fall apart as soon as I get it home. There are times I don't feel like buying some smelly cheese that has been brought from the South of France on the sweaty back of a purely organically fed donkey, really honestly there are times 1920 cocktail dresses don't interest me at all and I just want to buy something useful. Like then, I just wanted to buy a toaster, just a fucking toaster, you know to make toast - for like the morning to have with your tea, with marmalade on. By the looks I was getting you would think I asking if they knew somewhere I could buy anal lubricant.

So I started walking - I don't know how far or for how long but was a while. Nothing. As the frequency of burnt out cars, bullet holes in buildings and broken crack vials on the pavement increased I realised I was getting close to Hackney - there will be no toasters there**. I got the sinking sensation that this little venture was going to result in failure. Then it dawned on me - oh my god - I am going to have to go to oxford street *** - the crowds, the madness , the horror, the horror, the horror.

* Now I could say that I was an antiques dealer in France for a short period in my life so know over priced nonsense when I see it but I won't because that would be a lie. It wasn't antiques it was old junk and it wasn't dealing it was incompetently selling stuff for less than it was bought for and besides I didn't handle that side of things. I just drove the van. So before you get any exciting notions of me foiling complicated scams involving an alluring French aristocrat, a travelling circus and stolen Rembrandt - it really wasn't like that - the most exciting thing that happened was me shouting at a man who was trying to steal a kitchen sink.

** Hackney is that bad - I am sure they sell toasters there but I didn't have my bullet proof jacket with me so I wasn't going to risk it.

*** Oxford street is not that bad as long as you never, ever, ever go there.