Winter hangs over Church Street in grey tatters. A carpet of damp, crumpled cardboard and stray cabbage leaves leads through the precarious jumble of striped tarpaulins and knocked down prices. Against the backdrop of drab brown concrete, seagulls circle and shriek, swooping down on discarded fish heads. Bursts of heated Arabic mingle with the booming shouts of the market traders, penetrating the tight-lipped London gloom. By the falafel stand sits the same group of wizened old men. Partially obscured by clouds of smoke, they watch another day pass by, oblivious to the cold. Packaging and rubbish blow amongst the parked vans creating a messy maze through which veiled women drag shopping trolleys and reluctant children.

Outside the Pound Shop, plastic trestle tables sag under mountains of clothing and gaudy gold jewellery: more is more when it's 3 for £10. At this end of the street, no-one asks questions. The where, how, and who of manufacturing are sidelined in the struggle for survival. But only a few steps away, questions of origin, provenance and value take centre stage in the gently lit antique shop windows. Here everything is carefully researched, curated and catalogued, as experts with half-moon spectacles peer at delicate pieces, quietly uncovering fascinating stories of one-off treasures.