“Pay my price in pearls of wisdom,
Tell me stories of my fame”
For three years at the end of the Eighties, every stitch I wore came from Kensington Market. You could find everything you wanted across its three floors. Well … as long as everything you wanted was kinda gothy or punky. A real rag-tag collection of treasures and people were to be found as you tried to orienteer yourself through the dark, narrow passages between overstuffed stalls. It was like walking into a scene from Blade Runner.
Long-tailed, over-sized Robert Smith-style shirts. Multi-buckled suede ‘winkle-pickers’. Ex-army trench coats. Poorly printed Mary Chain t-shirts. Sisters of Mercy bootlegs. My bags would be bulging. I was never quite brave enough to get my hair cut in the basement barbers or try the food, but you really could have lived there – and many of the more curious looking folk that I saw around me probably did.
Don’t look for it now, as someone decided this delightfully individual London landmark should make way for another hotel about 10 years back. It’s much missed, and has got me thinking about other wonderful places I can never visit again: the Luminaire cinema; the Astoria, the (original) Intrepid Fox. Hmm … more of all those another time.
Spotify linky:
The March Violets – Snake Dance
