I'm wandering around a field. It's too early for a Sunday. I'm searching for hidden treasures. My sunglasses mean I don't have to make eye contact with anyone. I'm eyeing up their belongings. I'm sizing them up. A sweating pallid couple are discarding their No-Meat Cookbook for 50p. An audacious young fellow wants you to see his assortment of Top Gear magazines. He lures you in by taking his top off and yelling at you like a market trader. A small bespectacled man is parting with his old DVDs. The scrawls on his upturned cardboard box encourage you to enquire about his adult collection. The enormous butcher van has come along with the enormous butcher. A pair of sweating pallid ears prick at the mention of lamb burgers and shuffles off for a browse. Innumerable patterned bedpans suggest the inside toilet has arrived in The Fens and is here to stay. If it's a bacon butty and Jodi Picoult's complete bibliography you're after, what a veritable treasure trove.
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