“Oh, er . . .” I look at the selection behind the glass. There are a few pasties and pastries, things like Scotch eggs and potato salad, as well as sliced meat and wrapped cuts.

“Can I have a Scotch egg and . . .” The man’s hand reaches for the Scotch egg at the top of the pile and wraps it in thin plastic, then places it on the counter. “. . . a cheese and . . . bacon pastry thing . . .” I point, and he gets a small paper bag from behind him and uses tongs to pick the pastry up. “And one of those sausages, maybe a couple of those smaller sausages too, some potato salad—and yeah . . . um . . . do you have, like, some pig blood?” I shuffle on the spot and clear my throat.

The man pauses, his gloved hand midway to a stack of sausages at the front of the counter. Then he stands upright, a confused expression on his face.

“I’m a performance artist,” I say, but my voice is very quiet.

“You what now?” the man says.

“Performance artist?”

The man just stares at me. “We don’t sell anything like that here,” he says, gruffly, as if it is performance artists I’m looking to buy. I hear another customer whisper something to someone else behind me, and both of them quietly laugh.

“Oh, um.” I back away from the counter. It was easy in Margate. The butcher there had surplus blood every other day. And she didn’t ask any questions. I start making my way toward the door. “Sorry,” I say as I leave, and the man shouts behind me, “What about your shopping? Hey!”

Outside, I stand on the pavement for a moment wondering whether I’m going to cry. But I don’t—I just kind of stand there, next to a lamppost, while people walk hurriedly past me. It’s rush hour. People are walking from Vauxhall Station and Vauxhall Bridge, trying to get home. I collect myself, feeling the ground beneath my feet, thinking about what I should do next. It’s getting darker now. The sun dipped behind the buildings a while ago, but it’s still there, above the horizon; I can feel its presence, even though there’s so much concrete between us. The sky is a pleasing orange. Around about this time, I can handle looking up at the clouds without the light feeling too bright.