The Pirate Columnist

First published at Medium.

“Aha,” said the newspaper man, “your name sounds like that of a pirate!”

I liked that. I guess he was thinking of Captain Kidd, the Scottish sailor executed for piracy. Well, I do have something in common with Captain Kidd as my ancestry originates from Elgin, but I’ve never done anything naughty on the high seas, well, not yet…

My author name does go back to my roots, as it is a derivative of my grandfather’s original surname, Kiddy, while Petra is the feminine version of Peter, my father’s name.

I said in my previous blog that I live in a county that goes by the motto ‘do different’, and there came a time in my life where I decided to do different-well, very different for me anyway. To go from an office job to the challenges of a market stall was, I have to confess, a fairly impulsive and, in many ways, crazy decision. So far, my career has gone from retail to academic publishing, commercial advertising, and being a PA in a small business. Upon my return to Norfolk from a year living in London, I found myself somewhat adrift, doing a variety of temping jobs. The last of my temping jobs landed me in social services, which of course was an eye-opener, but sitting and typing up notes and answering the phone to distressed families wasn’t something I could see myself doing long-term. I felt restless.

That was the end of my time in offices. I went home to my then-partner and told him my crazy idea. To my amazement, he thought it a great idea, and with a mere £100, I set up a jewellery stall. In my red Volvo estate, I arrived at a country town market and began trying to piece my stall together. I’d put coloured dots on the bars to make sure they joined correctly. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the fruit and vegetable guys rolling their eyes and muttering, “Here comes another one who’s going to last five minutes”. How wrong they were; I lasted 12 years.

How I lasted, I have no idea. It became a battle of wills: me and the elements; me being accepted by the seasoned traders; me persuading customers to buy from me; me determined to make this new life work, come hell or high water. Both hell and high water did indeed come. I stood in horrific storms, high winds, snow and ice, and blistering heat. I bought a van that was reliable but had its fair share of dramatic breakdowns, once on a roundabout. My daily attire went from suits to ski wear. Every day was a bad hair day. 5 a.m. starts, fifteen-hour days, some days with no or hardly any money taken-it took four hours to set up the stall and a couple to break it down. The end of weekend leisure time. Some friends thought I was bonkers; others would sneer; my mum begged me not to do it; did I listen? No!

I loved it.

I enjoyed the company of the traders, who were all great characters. I loved their humour and ability to endure the toughest of times. I loved the customers (well, most of them), each with their own stories and peculiarities. I loved being outdoors and the friendships I made. It was indeed different, but it felt right for me. It wasn’t just a job; it became a way of life. Being outdoors, learning about business, everyday something new.

The storyteller in me came out to play, and I started to write about market life. Then it occurred to me that it would be good to write a newspaper column that might help promote the markets, which were struggling somewhat because at the time they were no longer fashionable places to shop. I contacted the editor of the EDP (Eastern Daily Press), and he agreed. So for the next eighteen months, I wrote a weekly column, and I actually got paid for it. For obvious reasons, I decided to be anonymous and came up with the name Petra Kidd.

No one knew it was me, but one day one of the traders came to see me and asked if I’d seen the column. Innocently, I shook my head. He showed me my latest column, and I went through the pretense of reading it. “It must’ve been done by a bloke, it’s too intelligent for a woman,” he said. This, of course, was a trap, and I had to be careful not to react. “Yeah, you are probably right.” I replied, appearing nonchalant, my heart racing.

Another time, the same trader made me read my column out to him, claiming he’d forgotten his glasses. I wasn’t quite sure if I’d been rattled or not.

Some years later, I confessed to the market manager that I was Petra Kidd, the columnist. He laughed out loud and told me he had the columns pinned to his office wall. Bizarrely, he’d had a friend named Petra Kidd who’d died, and seeing the name in print had freaked him out a bit. A weird coincidence!

The stereotypical view of market traders was that we weren’t intelligent enough to do anything else in life, but that is far from the truth. The traders come from many walks of life and have many interesting stories to tell. And no, it is nothing like EastEnders; most of the dramas were caused by the weather. Only one time did I actually leave my stall to another trader and go off to the pub (it was a hot, boring day).

It’s interesting that, thanks to the COVID-19 pandemic, markets became fashionable again. People returned to the most traditional way to shop because it became the safest. It made me feel good to see this, despite the horrible event in our history that made it so. Markets have always been important to communities, not just for the elderly but for everyone, so hopefully people will continue to shop in this way.

One day I will tell more tales from my market days…