The smell of motorbike oil and horse shit. Stalls piled high with dates and freshly squeezed oranges. Drums and voices and the snakecharmer's pipes. A man hurries forward, monkey chained to his shoulder, and I dodge back towards the soiled, laminated menus and waiters with fake Cockney accents - bloomin' marvellous, Asda price, Alan Shearer, lovely jubbly - ducking wooden snakes and railway tracks, Sudanese storytellers and a man twirling his hat. We sit on a bench next to a soup stall, eating couscous and skewered meat off paper plates, talking to our neighbours in bad French and Korean.
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