Noisy, crowded, street markets busy with people trading, sitting, talking. The produce spreads out wide along the pavements, piling up to the blue and white striped plastic canopies, lit by the swinging red lamps, sending us passers by spilling into the roads. I buy perfectly ripe purple plums, half a dozen at a great price, and leave the pineapples, strawberries, apples and grapes, regretfully. If only I had stronger arms to carry home bags bulging with fruit. When I walked through the door with the market stall best bursting from my shopping bags, Tiger would clap her hands and laugh in perfect joy.
