Most of Deptford Market is your standard south/east London fare: three-pack pants, timber wolf fleeces, Duracells and lighters. Halfway down its length,
though, is a distended gut of impacted crap, presided over by two tennis umpires up stepladders who take money, dispense change and guard against pilfering. There’s a brisk turnover of domestic breakables and massive accretions of video cassettes that never seem to move – a Monument Valley of the VHS age. Haggling can be hit and miss: friends have witnessed stallholders smash items if they think barterers are taking the piss.