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In the greengrocery market, the stalls were overhung with date branches, cinnamon stalks, strings of dried orange peels, gunny-bags of pistachios, fresh pears, pomegranates, and boxes of honeycombs.

Just that if we see the greengrocer driving a Rolls Royce then we can start to make assumptions about the profits to be made in greengrocery.

Our route took us past the tube station where a middle-aged white woman has a greengrocery stall.

But farmers are warning that a basketful of British produce – from tomatoes and cucumbers to apples – could disappear from greengrocery aisles.

This quaint greengrocery and pot-house was not flourishing, I conjecture, for a cab was at the door, and Mr. Goldshed, the eminent Hebrew, on the steps, apparently on the point of leaving.