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Write a poem or story that has a street vendor in it.
Monday to Friday he gathers his stock. Saturday he sets up his stall in the "Epicurean World" Street Market.
Monday to Friday he visits flats in slums. Dirt-filled parvements, cracked and unkempt beneath his boots. Landlords who take cash from their tenants, but give little in return.
He answers the desperate pleas of the slum dwellers 'This place is crawling with roaches. Please come and get rid of them.'
Like a magician in reverse, he magics away their problem. Leaving with a bulging, wriggling sack.
At home, he lights the gas under the pot of oil every night. As the smoke begins to rise he tips in the contents of the sack. The hiss, and bubbling soon subsides.
He fishes out the contents, and sprinkles them with seasoned salt. Soon, his cotton-lined baskets are full.
Saturday morning, bright and early, he sets out his stall. He has an awning to protect his wares. He whisks the covers off his baskets, and awaits the eager buyers.
Freshly fried cockroaches. One man's problem, another man's delicacy.
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