Portobello Market

Portobello Market, the smell of wood shavings, old money and chips.
The breeze skittering across the street as Jonah drags his feet on the way to work. That stall won't open itself, you know - His father's voice echoing in his head. He kicks his heels, dreams of being an architect or an art dealer, owning a big house in Kensington - white marble and long hallways, somebody to clean for him. He brushes a scuff of mud from his jacket and grins at the dream.

One day. He thinks. One Day.