Do you call it a retro or vintage market? I think it was officially marketed as a “Vintage Flea” but there was nothing flea about this collection of retro / vintage vendors selling their wares in the local hipster beer hall. Certainly not the prices.
There were all kinds of things for sale. Large items of furniture including what looked like bright pink car seats from a 1950s pink Cadillac (if such things exist). There were some stylish G-plan tables. There were racks of clothing hopefully labelled vintage but from my quick peruse the correct label would be ‘ugly’. The people selling Communist era Polish advertising posters weren’t there this time but there was someone selling some vintage looking signage in Hungarian.
There was glassware. There was pottery. There were pictures in frames. There were some vintage / antique frames without pictures. There were some cool shatterline lamps with very hot prices.
Husband and I walked around for maybe 40 minutes. There were lots of things that caught our eye but nothing that caught our heart or wallet.
“Oh I love Art Deco,” said one of young couple who seemed to be on a date. “Oh, me too! I love Art Deco.”
Young Asian girls were photographing themselves in front of various items for sale.
A woman in pink hair and pink overalls and lots of facial piercings was talking to her friends in a loud voice, giving an opinion on everything for sale at every stall.
Husband pointed out a vendor selling West Germany pottery, something I have a bit of a weakness for.
“These are probably the only reasonably priced things in here,” he said. I picked up one of the vases, in an understated early-snow collection of colours: cream, brown, white. It wasn’t very tall, but it was solid. I ran my hand over the bumpy surface. It was nice, but did I want it? I put it back on the table where I found it, while I had a think.
We moved to look at a large painting of a red fish the same vendor had for sale.
CRASH!
We looked up. Everyone in the vicinity went quiet and looked over.
Two small children, aged maybe six or seven, stood in front of a knocked over pile of tables. That vase I liked was now in pieces on the floor, along with another West German pottery vase and a piece of Venetian glass. The two children looked at the man in horror, as did two people I assume were their parents.
“I knew that was going to happen,” said the vendor.
In the blink of an eye, the parents and children disappeared in the crowd.
The vendor sighed, and got up from his seat to clear away the debris. Other vendors came forward to help clear away the mess, pick up the broken pieces, sweep things away from where people were walking.
“I’m so sorry,” I said under my breath, to the brown-cream-green vase as it was carried away to the bin.
A couple came up to the vendor, breathless. “The parents of those children are heading for the front door,” they said.
The vendor shrugged. “What can I do?”
The children broke this man’s belongings, probably about £70 worth of things in total. Their parents whisked them away, no apology, no offer to pay, no lesson learned about running around in the midst of a busy market selling precious things.
What would you have done if you were the vendor?
What would you have done if you were the parents?
Tales from Tobhamhor 