a wander down Walthamstow market

Is it the hole between the legs that tells me that skin-coloured underwear is sexy?

Oh, for the days when empires were made of pie and mash.

This (above) is a Christmas Present. This (below) is a nightmare.

Warning: Christmas stockings are no good if they’re footless.

No wonder Waltham Forest needs more coppers…

All the fun of the paedophile (above) and the dentist (below).

Christmas Guy Fawkes.

He is world famous. And so are they. But what I liked most, here, was the extraordinary likeness between the lobster painting and the woman in her mac. And what poetic parade naming.

Santas gather. Barry canters.

Darrell neighs.

Smudger, George and Naomi too. Who said Enid Blyton was out of fashion?

Oozing festive cheer.

A concrete bauble.

No no. Morris got it wrong. Shopping is life. And so is unlimited eating. Bad luck if you’re a tall child though.

So do they keep a tape measure by the entrance?

Alcohol is life and death.

And if you can’t find what you want to make it merry at the market, you can always go here instead:

So, so, so much more.

Jesus Christ is born. But there was and only ever will be one king and, in Walthamstow, we all know who that is.