Still trying to shop

I still had to wait. No problem. While I did so, I was privy to the halting conversation between stallholder and his then patrons, which struggled, as English clearly wasn’t anyone’s first language. The chat was illuminating and dismal; the stallholder made noises about being on a good thing and not needing to discuss finances, let alone run a market stall in the Sofia drizzle, but going on, nonetheless, about how he bought and sold gold and silver in Thessaloniki. His customers - a rather joyless looking couple in European kagouls - seemed interested in in this ruddy nonsense. All this time, the pens I was coveting were locked in a cabinet. Eventually, after a bored impasse, the couple moved on. I asked to see the pens with a view to coolly snaffling one or both Pelikans.

‘How much?’ I asked, nonchalantly picking up a green marbled pen after a few pregnant pauses, as if I was doing the stallholder a huge favour. The pens were grubby but in reasonable shape. I decided to do the deal, hopefully for less than 40 Lev (around £20) and leave with a spring in my step and still not leave the dealer particularly fleeced.

“One hundred and eighty,” I was told in a bored aggressive tone.

“And this one?” I croaked, trying not to give anything away and holding up the most battered looking pen of the bunch - a second, far more ragged Pelikan. I was already planning an honourable retreat, but still wanted to do so after having visibly considered, possibly bartered and adopting a slightly disappointed air. I wanted a happy sense of having engaged, which was achievable if I could persuade the stallholder there was a chance I might come close to a low end evaluation. Which, for this tatty specimen, and even with the 180 Lev quoted for the earlier pen, I reckoned at around the 30 Lev mark.

“One hundred.”

“Oh,” I said.

“How much do you want to pay?”

The stallholder looked the kind who might flip into a random act of extreme hostility. Instead, of answering the question, I employed a hastily composed, just about acceptable sign off of ‘oh; I was just looking’ - before turning on my heels, making one last sneer at the Nazi memorabilia and scarpering. If nothing else, the whole excursion reinforced my long held view that me and shopping just don’t get on.