Markets

After the BBC Winter Good Food Show, and subsequently getting right up in front of people - this type of advertising and selling is all I knew. It was only from talking to other founders in the industry that I realised they took a different approach; whereas I went straight to market, they reached out to retailers in advance of launching their business to secure a store listing (and guaranteed sales, and somewhere familiar to send customers to); I was slightly envious, and resentful. Although I wanted NB to be as publicly visible as possible, and to gain immediate brand awareness - I never even considered this option. In 2016 I applied to trade at both Bermondsey and Chelsea and managed to get a bi-weekly Saturday slot. Alongside a compulsory Wednesday market in Covent Garden that came hand in hand with the former; I must admit, it was not my favourite. Imagine the set up: Sushi, soup, sandwiches - and nut butter! As a new trader I couldn’t not go; every week I turned up optimistic, and every week it failed, understandably, I rarely saw a return on my £15 (eventually £25) pitch fee. But without doing Wednesday I could not attend Saturday, non-negotiable (and I tried).

My memories of markets are fond, mostly. Days well-spent engaging with customers and traders alike. Hearing first-hand feedback and receiving instant cash-in-hand. Someone choosing to buy your product - often repeatedly - is exhilarating! Not to mention the boost of serotonin, personal reassurance that this decision to turn a hobby into a hustle was definitely, absolutely not an absurd, ridiculous (am I sure it is not a) mistake. Sometimes it rarely felt like work, a feeling I am grateful for; I get to connect with people who share my passion; celebrity spotting was an added bonus, including Sam Smith and Helena Bonham Carter, both of whom tried my nut butters. Helena went on to buy a taster pack! A very surreal moment, probably for her too; I tried to keep my cool and calm, unlike my sister who asked if Helena wanted an email receipt; my look of disdain as she responded (no, thanks).

Without a car in London (nor the patience to attempt to drive), getting to and from markets had its limitations. Taxis are expensive so I chose to go on the underground; if the Circle line was down, I wheeled my 15kg suitcase to the next nearest station and found another way to get there. For this my suitcase was brilliant - genuinely the most efficient and effective means of transport to carry my banners, flyers, table cloth, wooden crates and jars of nut butter. (Less brilliant for the handful of commuters who offered to help me carry it up and down stairs, I imagine they were not suspecting this innocent ‘holiday-goer’ to be trundling such a heavy weight, and rightly so). Credit to the Duke of Edinburgh. I got so attached to my suitcase, one day, when the zipper jammed and had to be cut open - no joke, I cried. And when a fellow food trader offered to drive me there and back for the rest of the season, I jumped at her proposal (literally, if I remember correctly). I have never said yes so quickly - had she been down on one knee I believe anyone would have been fooled.

Blame delirium, emotions were high; markets are exhausting! Early starts, long days, on your feet, mostly, and cold - or perhaps how I remember it anyway. In 2018, for example, St John’s Christmas Fayre was not officially cancelled but there was a blizzard. Slowly one by one traders began to pack up and leave; knowing I would be sitting at home otherwise was the only incentive I needed to stay for the entire three days until the bitter end. Wearing plastic bags over my boots as well as tights under leggings under jeans under tracksuit bottoms - the same layers applied on top: hat, scarf, gloves, ski jacket. Trying to look presentable, attractive, even, when in fact I looked like Michelin Man. Fortunately, in this instance, there was not another person in sight. Unfortunately, I sold nothing.

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I had been doing markets consistently for nearly two years before my eating disorder began to rear its head; it was always there; since 2012 I managed to subdue its want for attention, and keep unhealthy behaviour at bay, just enough for it to not affect me any more than it already was. In 2017, I had been running the business long enough for it to feel like my main job, a ‘real job’; I got excited about it every day, and nothing makes me feel more empowered than fulfilling a purpose and feeling accomplished. (And when I feel happy I care less about how my body looks). I had also been running the business long enough to realise that I was playing a long game; the overnight success I at first expected was not happening, nor was it going to. Out of habit, like clockwork when doubt creeps in, my body made up for what I felt I lacked, the validation and security I craved; my eating disorder was something to fall back on when I wanted to feel confident and successful, to be like my peers. So other than cold wet weather (that chilled me to the bone), my less fond memories of markets are mostly to do with my eating disorder, how unkindly I treated my body; how much stress I put it under by how little fuel I provided; my commitment to it just as much as my commitment to NB. Rules included limiting my coffee intake to just one - not in a day but across the entire weekend. I always longed for one at Victoria Park Market - tempted by the barista’s real-dark-chocolate mocha - but no. Regardless of having been on a 5km run that morning and then shlepping across London to build-your-own gazebo, which is a workout in itself - all before 9:30am - rules are rules; rules are not to be broken; coffee “promotes cellulite” (pff) and my ration had already been spent at Chelsea market the day before.

Given I was at a food market at least twice a week, I always took my own lunch, which eventually became breakfast, too. If I was hungry, I ignored it; if I was given something to try, for free - an offering as small as a piece of fudge - I never ate it. Pretended to, probably, then I threw it away. I told myself I was not having the chicken enchilada to save money, or didn’t really fancy Currywurst at the time, but really I knew it was because I did not want to eat anything ‘unhealthy’, ‘unclean’ - plainly speaking - not prepared by me. One weekend I went as far as taking leftover dinner with me to Bristol to have for lunch the next day. A stew of butternut squash literally squashed at the bottom of my bag and out of the fridge overnight - and I could taste it. Whilst my friend enjoyed a homemade sausage roll from a local café, his offer to buy me one I politely, and regrettably, declined. Although I had no shame or embarrassment, I justified it by my want to not waste food. But also this measly lunch played an important role in reducing the anxiety I felt for spending the weekend at a food festival, away from my routine; going out for dinner and drinks; taking two days off exercise, God forbid; I still remember the worry I felt about swapping Sunday Body Pump for a spontaneous roast - agreeing to a glass of wine and yet not touching it, afraid of what drinking twice in one weekend would do to my body; the subsequent guilt and overthinking is never worth it.

Admittedly, since my last market in 2020, following on from lockdown closures, I am torn between missing them and feeling relieved. Nothing compares to being customer facing - making my dream of sharing this product with others come true - and yet four years wore me down. The physicality and social energy combined with eating less; I literally felt the effects of hard work whilst doing the ‘right’ thing by diet culture - and I thrived off being productive. Then I deserve to rest, relax, eat, chill, have fun, go out, do whatever I want because I have earned it. It is sad, really, that I had to simultaneously push my body to feel good about myself at the end of the day. What’s worse is I am not sure I trust myself fully to commit to markets again without slipping back into this mentality and form of restrictive behaviour.