Six and a half years ago we were in Borough Market and I had made my way over to Brindisi  looking for good Spanish food to buy and take home. I ended up buying a 1 kilo tin of paprika. It has sat by the oven ever since and normally gets opened once or twice a week so that some of its magic can be added to whatever I might be cooking.

The use by date passed years ago but that didn’t seem to make too much difference to the flavour.

I used up the last of it today on some chicken thighs bought from The Farmers Market. The thighs were fried in a pan that I had used last night to fry up some potatoes and garlic. The bits of burnt garlic stuck to the bottom of the pan added to the taste.

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Once the thighs were done they were sliced up and we ate them stuffed into a baguette with Turkish peppers, salad, onion and tomato.

It is likely they will be the last chicken thighs I will be able to buy from The Farmer’s Market.

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The chicken stall will be there in April but we will be away. In the circumstances it seemed sensible to stock up and there are now four fat chickens downstairs in the freezer. I will have to eke them out over the course of the next few months.

I got the fifth chicken for tomorrows lunch.

Over the years I have barely exchanged a half dozen words with the two men who work the stall but today I told them they would be missed in the market and that I would miss their very fine chicken.

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I missed the 2.00 o’clock train back to Liverpool so I had an hour to kill at Euston this afternoon. Euston is going through a bit of a makeover on the moment and there are a few more places to eat there now. None of them tempted me and I wasn’t sure how wise it would be kill the hour in The Euston Tap. A call home reminded me that there had been a write up in The Guardian some months ago of a fabled place within spitting distance of the station where a man styled the roti king did marvellous things with pliable dough and good curry.

I was given vague directions and set off to find it. Unfortunately the directions were too vague and I was a mile up the wrong road before I sought assistance. For future reference there is no need to go all the way up Eversholt Street. All you need do is cross it and you should find yourself on Doric Street. There on the left hand side you will see a misleading sign to a Chinese restaurant. Go down the steps and push open the door and you are there.

It s a hole in the wall sort of place, a half dozen or so low tables, stools to sit on and a squashed kitchen on the left hand side as you walk in. I sat down and was given my menu and chose my food.

A roti is a type of Asian flat bread but that does not do justice to what was being created in there. I had managed to sit so my back was to where I wanted to see but looking over my shoulder I was able to see enough of what was going on.

The roti king was a tall man stooped over his work top. The roti started as small white balls of dough that were quickly rolled to a gossamer thinness and then spun through the air with a flick of fingers before being cooked on a hot griddle. They came to the table on a plate with a small bowl of chicken curry and all I had to do was take up the bread in my fingers and dredge up the curry sauce and take it up to my mouth. It was very good.

There was even time after I had finished to slip in a quick pint in The Euston Tap before I caught the 3.00 o’clock train.

We were back amongst the alternative streets for an hour or yesterday evening.

The various artists had been organised by Alternator Studios based in a disused bakery situated just down from the junction with Balls Road and Oxton Road. We had been told that a performance would be taking place at 5.45 but we were not quite sure what would be happening.

Inside the bakery it was good to see an old building being put back into use but with traces left from its former life including the heavy metal door to the bread oven green with age. We recognised some of the faces that we had seen walking up and down Oxton Road that morning and there was some catching up on what had gone on over the day.

The performance was a reading by Liverpool writer Jeff Young. He had spent a week with Frank Cavanagh the cobbler and wrote about the A552, the road that now carves its way through Birkenhead, and the memories and ghosts that lie under it.

Back at home we ate bulgar wheat burgers, garlicky lamb chops and a salad of chickpeas and Turkish peppers.

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We also had three artichokes cooked in simmering water until soft and the eaten with our fingers. We chewed at the base of the leaves and then pulled them apart to get to the choke.