AN EXTRAORDINARY THING

FALAFELS

An Unreasonably Eventful Quest for Falafels

Today, something truly extraordinary happened — the sort of tale that demands retelling at dinner parties, funerals, and awkward lift journeys. I bought a metal file box. Yes. A file box. From a stationer's. On South Clark Street. Don’t worry, it gets wildly more exciting.

As I waddled out triumphantly cradling my brand-new, emotionally-neutral file box, I noticed a Middle-Eastern shop across the road — the kind of place that smells like cumin, nostalgia, and someone's grandma's secret recipe. They had everything: falafels, exotic teas, herbs, mysterious snacks with packaging that makes no promises in English, and Arabic bread called khubz — which sounds like a sneeze but tastes better.

At the counter, nestled under a glass case like crown jewels, were rows of falafels. Not the crumbly, golden, "fall-apart-in-your-hand-like-your-life-during-tax-season" type — no, these were dense, dark brown things with the texture of pumpernickel and the emotional energy of a brick wall. I chose two spinach falafels. Because I'm wild like that.

Then came the Falafel Gatekeeper: a teenage boy of Herculean proportions, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else — preferably in a videogame or asleep. He wordlessly pulled on a pair of blue plastic gloves (without breaking eye contact, which felt weirdly confrontational), bagged the falafels, and mumbled, "We don't take card for under five pounds."

I blinked.

"Sorry, what?"

He repeated the sentence, but slower, as if I were a particularly dim barn owl. Apparently, we were still living in 2003 in this shop — cash-only for anything under £5. Why? Who knows. Ancient tradition? Local superstition? A secret test of character?

"I can't pay," I said, checking my pockets. No coins. Not even the lint had any value.

A petty part of me considered grabbing a few random items to cross the sacred £5 threshold — maybe a bag of dried hibiscus or a suspiciously large tin of pickled lemons — but no. That’s how they get you. First it’s falafels, then it's thirty quid of mystery spices and a sudden fondness for za’atar.

So I did what any self-respecting British person would do in a moment of quiet public awkwardness: I turned and legged it.

About twenty metres up the street, dragging my file box like it was a suitcase full of secrets, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"I'll pay," said a girl.

I turned, fully expecting to be mugged or recruited into a cult. But instead, there she was: a petite, Chinese-looking girl with a carton of milk and the moral authority of someone who’s been raised right.

I blinked again.

"No, really, it’s OK," I muttered, Britishness intensifying.

But she grabbed me by the arm with the firm politeness of a dentist about to pull a tooth. Back we went.

She was buying milk — milk! — and her total also came in under £5. Clearly, this shop was running a deeply inconvenient social experiment.

I kept whispering, "It's fine, really, don’t worry," as she ping-ponged around the shop grabbing low-cost items with the strategic frenzy of someone playing Supermarket Sweep on a deadline.

“That’ll be £4.80,” grunted the shopkeeper, clearly enjoying this power trip.

She dramatically seized a packet of crisps and said, “I’ll take these!” like she was ending a Broadway number.

She tapped her phone, paid for everything, and just like that — I had falafels. She had milk, chocolate, and crisps. And the shop had my pride.

"Where are you from?" I asked as we strolled out like accidental criminals.

"Malaysia."

"Name?"

"Miranda."

“What are you doing here?”

"Astronomy. I’m studying at Edinburgh University."

Of course she was. A literal star-gazer who’d just descended from the heavens to help an old man buy falafels. I felt like a side character in her origin story.

She smiled and said, “You should get this payment on your phone.” Like a friendly threat.

“Oh, my daughter’s got that,” I replied, as if my adult child’s digital literacy somehow excused my own Stone Age lifestyle.

"Tell your daughter to put it on your phone," she instructed. Clearly a future general of something.

Of course, none of this helped with the original issue — the draconian £5 minimum — but I appreciated the effort.

We parted ways shortly after, she with her groceries and ambitions, and me with my metal box and falafels — plus a heart unexpectedly warmed by the kindness of a stranger and the absurdity of modern retail.

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