London lite

Adele came in to work today to visit my favourite coworker/her videographer who is leaving on her US tour later this month - all expenses paid, plus a weekly allowance and all access passes to Bonnaroo. She was really chill and carrying the sort of Chanel handbag that's real but looks fake, something that Louis Vuitton has been specializing in since the early 00s.

I love all the celebrity sightings in Portobello. The paparazzi wear suits and carry telephoto lenses the length of my arm to train on Lily Allen and Helena Bonham Carter, Norman Cook and Ian Brown.

Kelly Rowland has come in a few times - on weekdays in sweatpants and a ponytail, on weekends with four inch heels, five inch extensions and two inch nails and lashes (for the cameras). Shaznay from All Saints was in twice last week for some casual clothes and Minnie Driver spilled her pregancy news as I helped her pick out some tunic-lenth tees.

It's easy to keep an eye out for the prime international targets, and the London daily rags are basically a flimsy paper Facebook of who to look out for in the market on weekends.

The market itself is a zoo. All the locals know to come on Fridays since tourists aren't told that it's open any day outside of Saturday. The antique books and prints and bric a brac have gouged a hole in my lunch money and I come back from my breaks with more skeleton keys and crane-shaped sewing scissors than egg-and-cress sandwiches.

As fun as weekends are, the security is also the toughest. We double our staff and the security guards are on high alert for the petty crooks and hustlers working on behalf of local gangs. The worst are the Spice Girls, a ring of 40+ immense black women in fluo spandex and fishnet monstrosities.

They come in pairs, usually with their kids in tow and a pram to stow their gear. They're exceedingly rough and ask obvious questions to distract the sales staff while the other stuffs racks full of clothing into the baby carriage. They favour all things shiny and metallic and use their children and their toothless mugs as deterrents to our protests.

The latest security guard, a tall, scrawny Nigerian who performs magic tricks during the lulls and chases children around the store, has had his pride wounded lately as stacks of clothing have gone missing while his back is turned. He's taken to hiding behind the racks near the side door so it looks like the store is empty, to lure the thieves in, wherein he will leap out from behind the clothes and nab them.

This week he caught the Spice Girls in the act near the back of the store, with some PVC skirts peeking out of their purses. When he confronted them, they lashed out and beat him loudly and roundly to the ground in front of the Saturday crowds. While one ripped at his shirt, another stole his watch and their diversion-tactic spawn kicked him in the shins. They made off before the police could even consider forging a path through the scrum of weekend shoppers.

After filing a report and accepting a shirt from the shop floor, he left and we haven't seen him since. It's sad because lately he's been on an apple kick for lunch - eating two or three at a time - and he left an entire grocery bag full of fruit near the fridge and we don't know what to do with it (or why he brought thirty apples with him that day in the first place).