Had to print some photos at Boots in Bury's Mill Gate - cycled there straight after leaving kids in school. Nice to have the place all to myself (well, almost) - the early hour, competition from The Rock, or both?
I put the photo order in, then had an hour to kill. The lure of good old Katsouris too strong to resist, I went there for a coffee and a sweet, I confess. The place is at its best at this time, get all the good things about it (the coffee, the sweets, etc) without any of the ludicrous overcrowding the the poor layout design of that shop causes on a Saturday morning. I realise there's background music - a succession of pop songs in many European languages - I guess it's there for atmosphere, the assumption being that customers won't distinguish between Greek, Italian or Spanish. On a Saturday you can't hear the music, only the din of shouted orders and constant chat.
I sit outside: my coffee is good, the 'home-made' paklava is ok - not sure what kind of home it may come from, for what I get is a solid brick of flaky pastry, ground mixed nuts and congealed syrup. The plastic cuttlery I'm given must be some sort of private joke, as it clearly doesn't cut it (literally).
Any aroma from the coffee is soon drowned by the smell of fish from the market hall. I don't mind - the smell of a real market takes me back, to childhood days spent with my mum or my grandma, filling up their bags through a miriad of quick transactions, stall after stall.
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