Sydney from on high (3)

Looking down upon the 1898 Queen Victoria Building (QVB), which many would assert is the centre of this city. It is bounded by George Street (where the big, red bus is), York Street (on the other side), and has Market Street running east-west along the RHS. Market St is eponymous with the QVB which is the site of the original municipoal markets, the site having been reserved for such a purpose in 1810 by Governor Macquarie.

Heads-up

Every Saturday, up at the Uniting Church on Oxford Street, there is a flea market. I will probably be chastised for calling it that; rather I should call it an art and craft market. It has over 200 stalls, it has been in existence since 1973, and its stall-holders are not shy about charging.


As stall-holders packed up at the end of another long day, I wandered around, getting more of a feel of how markets like Covent Garden must have felt in the good-ole-days.

Earth to Elvis

Scene:

Paddington Markets on a bleak Autumn Saturday arvo

Characters:

One little old lady with the wisdom of the ages, aka con-artiste.
Two needy types in over their heads, aka suckers.

Cars whizzed by within a yard of her oblivious back. She strained to hear the softly spoken supplicant, her demeanour ripe with understanding. Her inner eye keeping watch on the partner, slightly off-stage, alert to any change of posture, that might indicate derision, or lack of taking the hook.

The Elvis badge jiggled on her devil-may-care cotton hat.

G is for Godot - waiting at the markets

The setting is Taylor Square markets, one blustery bitter day near the end of winter, our two protagonists shuffle down stage, right and centre. Hush.

She stands in her own space, erect, still, silent, a mill pond of sadness. The market bustles around her: trolleys are towed, parsnips bought, cauliflower traded, tomatoes sorted, money exchanged. She stands there all the while, behind a veil of culture, an Estragon ‘holding the terrible silence at bay’. She watches the crossing, the people crossing, watches them walk into her field of vision. Whomsoever she waits for, would she recognise them, I ponder. Whose face is she searching for, as she waits? Her eyes trace the patterned bricks, until she again hears footsteps.


Yonder, a noisy energy radiates from Vladimiir’s bench in the centre of the market place. Dust motes rise unceasingly into the morning sun, tickled by the late winter chill, exasperated into flight by his constant need to do. To communicate. To talk. To ring. To text. To swivel. He is a whirlwind. He is a maelstrom. He presents an absurd theatre of the now. It is all about him. His tetchiness. All about need. His need to be seen doing. His need to be heard. To command attention. Turn the focus on me. Here I am. You all need me. You must need me – I need you.

The market crowd mills, busy with its own shape and focus. Our two protagonists wait. We cannot tell for what, or for whom.

A participant in the CDPB Theme Day Open Air Markets

A member of the ABC Wednesday community.

The good ole days

Pumpkin is a very popular vegetable in Australia and is a favourite when roasted with potatoes and onions around a leg of lamb for the main family meal on a Sunday. It is also used to mash together with potatoes, butter and pepper and salt. Pumpkin soup is popular as are Pumpkin scones. Pumpkin Pie is not particularly popular in Australia.

These photos of 'Queensland Blue' pumpkins were taken on Saturday as I wandered around the new 'farmer's market' at Taylor Square in Darlinghurst. Although sunny and 18C the wind was bitter and chilly. Similar to the bitter winds that blew through our political establishment that very same day. Over the next 14 days, we await the result of a 'hung' parliament.


When my father was demobbed from the AIF (Australian Imperial Forces) in November 1945, he determined never to go back and work for a boss! Instead, he bought an old Bedford truck, constructed a frame for the rear tray, covered it with canvas, attached a large set of scales, and set up 'shop' as a door to door 'fruit'n'veg' man on the north shore of Sydney.

He would travel down to Paddy's Markets in the city twice a week, and spend the rest of the week selling to house-wives in Turramurra, Wahroonga, Waitara, Hornsby, Asquith and Normanhurst. He did this until the middle of 1956 when he decided to move to the country and chance his arm as a farmer. To this day, he can tell the difference between pumpkins. He can tell a Butternut from a Kent, a Golden Nugget from a Queensland Blue.


A member of the Mellow Yellow Monday community.

Thank you to Elaine for contacting me about my incorrect definition of AIF (I said Infantry instead of Imperial). Thanks for the heads-up, Elaine.

A cachophony of islanders

... take a warm blast of pipers droning ...


... to that add a wee dramm of fiddlers sawing ...


... confound with a thunder of drums a quivering ...


... harmonise with a swing of lads a lilting ...

... and our couple goes a slinking ...

Visit Arthur's Circus in the Hobart suburb of Battery Point or allow the colour of Australia's island state to wash over you.