Showcase: From Rice And Beans To Afternoon Tea + Sunday Barking Market + I Wasn’t Going To Go

Edited by Claire Buss

Hello and welcome back to week two of our January Creative Writing Showcase. My name is Claire, I’m an author, Mum and Deputy Editor of Write On! Magazine. This week, I thought I’d share pieces looking at the choice of location. I can confirm, from first-hand experience, that location is extremely important for me when I want to write. Despite the fact I’m  fortunate enough to have a home office, I find it near-impossible to write there. However, I can churn out a couple of thousand words in an hour with ease in the noisy coffee shop located on the school run.

My first selection this week is a look at British life through someone else’s eyes. Somebody who can celebrate their choice but also feel sad for what they have changed at the same time. We’re complex beings!

From Rice And Beans To Afternoon Tea: Reflections Of A Brazilian In The UK

January in England is not for the faint-hearted, especially for a carioca da gema (a true-born Carioca) like me. While in Brazil, the first month of the year is synonymous with holidays, the beach and a heat of 40 degrees or more. Here, it’s time to work and the cold chills you to the bone. It was exactly on one of those freezing mornings, heading to my job, I found myself reflecting on the hardships and delights of being an immigrant.

It all started inside the bus I take daily to the train station. The commute to work is long, about an hour and a half, which is plenty of time to philosophise about life. That day, a young man got on the bus but couldn’t validate his ticket. Perhaps his card had insufficient funds or had expired; here in England, you don’t pay cash for the fare, everything is done with bank cards or travel passes. He tried to explain himself to the driver in a language neither I, nor the driver, nor probably anyone else there, seemed to understand.

For the rest of my journey, I reflected on this. Maybe the young man was on his way to his first job or returning home, but he could barely communicate, much less understand why he couldn’t continue his journey or what he needed to do to fix the situation. He stood there, frozen, lost, while the driver insisted he get off and go to a shop – perhaps to check his card balance or buy a ticket. He hesitated, whether due to the language barrier or the simple fact of not knowing how to act. In the end, he got off, still not fully grasping what had happened. The image of him walking away stayed with me for the whole trip. I thought about the tough life of someone who leaves their own country with little money in their pocket and a mind full of dreams.

Living abroad is far from easy, nor is it as glamorous as most people imagine. Those who venture out know what I mean: the longing for family, for friends, for the sun, for the joy that only Brazilian people have, for rice and beans and even for that job you didn’t much like, but where everything made sense. It was your comfort zone. Not to mention the embarrassing situations – or, rather, the micos – that we encounter because we don’t know how things work here. Try not to laugh, because here comes a story…

On my first day of work in British lands, I looked for the toilet at the end of my shift. A colleague showed me the location. I went in, and the light automatically turned on. When it was time to leave, I thought, ‘Where do I turn it off?’ I scanned the area next to the toilet and saw a red cord. I remembered my brother-in-law’s house, which has a white cord, not next to the toilet, but by the door, which we use to turn off the light, and I thought, ‘That must be it!’ Can you believe I pulled the cord, and – get this – a deafening siren started to blare. It was the fire alarm!

In a matter of seconds, students, teachers and the headmistress appeared running. The confusion was so great that, when the headmistress asked who had pulled the cord, all I could manage was, “It was me.” The worst part is that no one knew how to turn it off. This pastel (fool/klutz) of a person just wanted to find a hole in the floor to hide her head in. Since that wasn’t possible, there was no other way but to press every button until the chaos was silenced. That day went down in history and into my repertoire of international blunders!

Oh,  if I were to tell you all the times I’ve been embarrassed in distant lands, the list would be endless! But this one is, without a doubt, the most epic and tragic of all: the toilet incident.

If you’ll allow me, I’d like to tell another embarrassing story that still brings laughter between my husband, myself and anyone else who hears about the blunder I made that day. Without further ado, let’s get straight to the point.

It was just another day, one of those where the mission was simple. We were out shopping and my husband was looking for a coat for his mother. I, of course, was looking for something for myself. Because after all, who doesn’t love a good find? So, he said: “I’m going to the first floor, and you stay here. I’ll call you later to find out where you are.”

After a while, the phone rings. He asks, “Where are you?” And I, all confident, reply, “I’m in front of the… fighting room!” And right there, you can imagine his face on the other end of the line, laughing uncontrollably, because, my dear, the ‘fighting room’ in English means exactly what it sounds like. I tried to correct myself, of course, but you know how it is… the brain, after a certain age, sometimes glitches, right? What I really wanted to say was that I was in front of the ‘fitting room’ (changing room), but my tongue wouldn’t obey.

Now, the best part is when he arrives. My  sweet, excited husband heads straight for the sales assistant and, with that grin of someone who knows he’s about to burst out laughing, asks, “Do you know where the… fighting room is?” The sales assistant, poor thing, looks at him as if thinking, ‘What’s going on with these two?’ but replies, slightly awkwardly, “Ah, we have the changing room, and… sometimes there are arguments, but it’s rare.” And right there, in that moment, his laugh became the story he never tires of repeating. He says I should write a book about the blunders I make here. Tragic and sometimes comic, but I swear to you, I don’t know how a person manages to do these kinds of things. The fact is that to this day, every time he can, he says, “Remember when you stood in front of the fighting room?”

It’s not all fun for the foreigner, though. We have a good time, but we also cry, get frustrated, have days when melancholy hits and everything you didn’t like in your old country turns into a sweet memory. That’s the truth about the immigrant life. Forcefully, you need to mould yourself, transform, evolve; I’d say it’s almost a metamorphosis. We take a lot of knocks until we are finally able to adapt to the style and pace of life in foreign lands. The job market, for example, can be ungrateful. Many end up in jobs that have nothing to do with the profession they practiced in Brazil and they feel frustrated. But with patience, creativity and persistence, the path can lead to unimaginable achievements. Believe me, I’m proof of that!

I’ve talked a lot about the negative points. Now let’s move on to the positives, because I don’t want to discourage anyone. Immigrant life also has its charms. Getting to know new cultures, learning new languages, making friends, meeting people and, who knows, the love of your life! Trying out other cuisines is also great, as is having the opportunity to get an international qualification and save up a bit of money. Both are valuable experiences.

I started this chronicle talking about the cold, the difficulties  and even the embarrassing moments. However, the truth is that immigration is a dream that is worth it for many. And the opportunities are out there, ready to be explored. It certainly requires courage, determination, focus and patience – a lot of patience – to deal with the stumbles, or with the red cords in the bathrooms of life.

And you? Would you dare to embark on this journey? I won’t lie: you will have a few (or many) blunders. But in the end, they’re the ones that make the best stories and memories!

(c) Andréa Cunha, 2025

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Let’s now wander through the streets of Barking Market, a location I’m sure evokes memories of markets all over the country.

Sunday Barking Market

The Barking Sunday market smells like,
People chasing bargains like they’re chasing dreams.

Sounds teeming with life, stalls clinging to lives,
Of those that once roamed the fields and the streams.
Where red meat beats like bleeding hearts,
On the sleeves of eager traders.

Where one man’s trash was always a treasure,
It’s just that treasures are subjectively seen.

Some offer loose change to those in the street,
Whilst some fill collection plates.
Spending and praying away their past mistakes.

Kids wait in boredom as elders browse windows and shelves.
They’ve seen it all before, all-purpose seasoning for,
All-purpose shopping, all flavours of things they’d seek out.

The sustenance of things that are cooked by our mothers,
We’d not understand in our youth.
All we’d see is that plate on the table,
All they’d feel is the weight of their purse.

Bags filled with plantains, scotch bonnets and yams.
These were the things that would fill up our stomachs.

Mutton, snapper and saltfish,
These were the things that we’d savour to taste.

Cooking, and cleaning, and spending,
They’d spend their last pennies so we would live on.

A taste of the things that would make us smile,
When we’d get home.

(c) The Philosophers Poet, 2026

Connect on Instagram: @the_philosophers_poet

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Sometimes we have to force ourselves to go somewhere. We may think that staying at home, safe and secure, is the best option, but changing our location can change how we feel, how we think and how we interact with others. Next time you’re not sure whether to go or not, maybe take a chance and change your location.

I Wasn’t Going To Go

It’s been cold and miserable. And I’ve got a cold, and I am miserable. But if I don’t go… I’m going to end up looking more like the sofa than I do already.

So I went. And the drive was horrendous. No, it wasn’t. It was morning traffic and a diversion, but it was fine. No one honked or pulled out like a crazy person. There were no fender-benders.

So I parked. And it was a nightmare. No, it wasn’t. There was an idiot trying to press the button for a parking ticket in an ANPR carpark, but you can’t have everything. And there were loads of spaces.

And it was cold. No, it wasn’t. It was beautiful bright blue skies and sun shining and possibly birds tweeting although it’s hard to tell with the kamikaze pigeons everywhere.

And people were being exceptionally peopley. No, they weren’t. They were gossiping in corners, queuing for shops to open. Smiling tentatively at each other. First day of Spring. A freshness in the air. A sense of things to come.

And the waitress judged me upon arrival. No, she didn’t. She very kindly asked what I would like to drink and if I wanted another sent up in the break. I wasn’t going to have anything. But I haven’t eaten breakfast.

And the organisers were mad that I came early. No, they weren’t. They were pleased to see me. I kept them away because of the lurgies, and someone moved away, but it wasn’t me. Well, it was because of me. But it wasn’t ME. And I found a seat, and I had my coffee and my breakfast, and they were impressed because I ordered deliciousness.

And I sat in the wrong place. No, I didn’t. It’s free for all. Sit where you like.

And no one spoke to me. Yes, they did. Your own shocking social skills and inability to small talk is completely your problem. You smile when they talk, and you exchange greetings, and you have a bad cold with a raspy voice, so talking is sort of out of the question, anyway.

And you won’t get any work done, so what’s the point? Yes, you will. You always do. OK, so you forgot your headphones and you’re not going to be able to block everyone out but, my goodness, you have a to-do list as long as your arm and you’ve got to start getting through some of it.

I wasn’t going to come. But the people that did were all smiles in their greetings and happiness at seeing each other, and I’m part of that group. I might be the very quiet one who doesn’t really speak, but I’m in that group. I am a writing buddy. I am here. I am writing. They are my buddies.

I have buddies. And I wasn’t going to come. But it’s the first day of spring. So I have to spring out. I have to de-hibernate. I have to pretend that I don’t have a horrendous cold and I am a working human.

And everyone else has sprung in. Spring wardrobes dusted off. Colours shining. Smiles reflecting sunshine. A melding of creativity and inspired minds. And there are bad things. Life happens to everyone all the time. Opportunities don’t necessarily match expectations. And that’s OK. It’s comforting to know that other people have pitfalls, but they’re still here. Still moving. Still going. You are not alone. The work is still there to be done. The world is still going to turn. Events move forwards. New opportunities are always presenting themselves.

I wasn’t going to seize life. Life seized me.

(c) Claire Buss, 2025

Connect with me on Instagram: @grasshopper2407

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