I'm hoping to obtain, at no great cost, a demob suit and sneakers, so that I can be more like Sir Woof Jagger.
I shall then appear on the streets and grand boulevards of Staines, practising my dance steps.
I cannot get me, no siree, any amount of satisfaction...

'Streetfood' is perhaps more enjoyable abroad.  We used to enjoy German and Belgian food in Rialto Market during our trips to Venice.  What is more ubiquitous in Blighty is jacket potato heaped with dollops of baked beans into a flimsy carton and eaten with a plastic fork.  Scarcely alluring.
We were in Matlock around Saturday lunchtime.  An Italian restaurant was, needless to say, closed, the owners doubtless knowing the average visitor to Matlock is content with fish and chips or a supermarket sandwich.  Streetfood might have been welcome if continental.  But not if overpriced.
We used to have great fun at the French markets that used to turn up here, our so-called middle class EU enthusiasts trying out their limited schoolgirl French only to be told (rather frostily) by the stallholder, 'We all speak English, Madame'.
We stopped going when we realised their mark-up on cheese was becoming a joke.

It's easy to forget this (if, indeed, one ever knew it in the first place) but these places have existed in one form or another at least as far back as the late 1970s.  Even Derby (not then a city) had 'Society' (not much cop) and 'ID', and Nottingham had far better places.  No social media then of course.  If they failed to open they failed to sell.  But the owner of ID made the mistake of stocking some rather expensive leather jackets.  The local teddy boys just walked in and helped themselves.  These were tough boys from the local council estates, unimpressed by a small number of art school, floppy-haired poseurs.

Needless to say, the main problem with most of these places is the people who run them, with their cutsie-pie Hashtag/Rainbow nation mentality.  Hockley in Nottingham abounds in such places.  Very off-putting for a dyed-in-the-wool old reactionary fart like AFS.

Pre-Internet, one was forever on a voyage of discovery.  I suppose this began for me around 1969, when I first began trying to track down DC and Marvel comic-books.  Less than ten years later, I'd get on a coach to Manchester to visit Virgin Records.  My father often took the train to London or Birmingham to buy/trade records.  In the last year of his life he was content to have me obtain rare CDs from the USA on Amazon or Ebay.  The thrill of the chase has largely gone.  It's like dating on Tinder (or, for those of you whose tastes run in the opposite direction, Grinder).  No thrill.  No romance.  No wistful yearnings.
Thank heaven, late this afternoon, I cheered myself up listening to Fred Astaire.

The shop turns out to be actually rather good.  The owner is bringing in consignments from the USA.  Saw Carhartt, Dickies, Levis, Ralph Lauren, Champion, Russell Athletic, Lands End, Patagonia etc.  Nothing much to thrill me nowadays but quite encouraging.

AFS,
Fred Astaire def cheers you up. His recordings should be mandatory listening at GCSE level.
Heard today Ella singing Night in Tunisia. Pure magic.
Tonight at Singer Towers will be a festival of Shorty Rogers in honour of the warm weather.

And now, less than a hundred yards away from my front door - ta-ra - the 'new' monthly Friday flea market. 
Quite a nice Harris Tweed jacket on sale: charcoal, almost black, with a very subtle fleck; verging on rockabilly.  Not really 'Ivy League' but all right for £20.  Seller was an overripe but quite sexy bird with greying hair and dark glasses.  I gave her my Invertere to hold: 'Oh, I sell lots of these...'  Was she bullshitting?  The jacket was a shit fit and went back on the rail. 
Then I had some fat, wheezing prole attempt to engage me in a conversation about Art Deco pottery.  He heard nothing of what I had to say about Susie Cooper so, clutching my wholemeal loaf, I came home.