The air, ecstatic with the voices of deep and shrill voice which was a buzz of bees that was interrupted occasionally by the begging, wailing, kicking, scruffing and obstreperous demand of a child. ‘But all my friends as it’ he says, ‘But you got a similar one at home, dear. Why wouldn’t you play with that’ his dad counters. ‘No!!!!!!!’ yells the child, and bursts into tear, tears streaming copiously out of his eyes, like the thick, viscous lava erupting from a volcano. The parent, realizing that he has no other way to placate his son but to buy him the toy, acquiesces. His son, informed by his dad expression that he has triumphed, plucks the last straw by collapsing onto the floor melodramatically. His mother, her hands on her hips, maintains her stern expression and taut grimace, but creased her eyebrows to show her disapproval of her son’s behavior. This scene was being played across the market, spreading like a contagious disease, as children had the epiphany that wailing and crying would finally work, and so they put all of their effort into cajoling their parents to buy them what they desired, after all, it was Saint George's day.
In the centre of the market, where the confluence of foods stalls were the greatest, the smell of popcorn, cheese, roasting meat, fresh baked bread, crunchy salted nuts, candy-floss, and chocolate coalesced to form such a redolent smell that it was sure to conjure the aura, blithe and beauty of such a place, that even heaven would look pale in comparison, not considering that shangri-la itself would be dismayed at it’s lack of beauty when compared to this idyllic place.
As one progresses further down the market, he would see the stalls of merchandise and food slowly blending into a open square, where for the celebration of Saint George's day, a parade of men on horses, wearing the classic armour of Saint George, a bold red cross splashed across the breastplate. The atmosphere around it was electric, almost as if sparks were given off the metal of the armour. These sparks galvanized and fueled the spectators, cheering on the men in red and white armour as they charged their horses towards a dummy dragon.
The food, the celebration, yelling of sellers and buyers, was the epitome and quintessential atmosphere of any market in St George’s day. This was Romford Market.
