To market, to market.

Saturday mornings, I do my fruit and veg shopping at Rusty's markets in Grafton Street. This morning, I woke with my head still full of the weeks work, then the delightful realisation washed over me that it was, in fact, Saturday morning and I was filled with a lovely yellowness. (A result of my synasthesia; Saturdays are always yellow. They just are.)
First up a freshly ground coffee at home while I indulge in the no-work-today feeling. I usually wander down to the corner to buy the Weekend Australian and, I have to admit it, dive straight for the Review and the latest books, books, books, while my daughter munches on her cereal and skips around in various stages of dress-up in preparation for her dance class.
When she's ready, and there's really no rush, we head out, she to her twirling and flourishing and me to mine. I take the longest time wandering the rows of fresh produce, discerning this week's best, and often stop for breakfast, in the form of a vegetable samosa from the Hare Krisna stall, or less often, sticky rice wrapped in banana leaf from one or other of the Asian stalls. I buy coffee beans first from Coffeeworks, the Cosmic blend is my current favourite, and usually linger a bit just, you know, smelling.
Then, onto the fruit and veg, fresh herbs, and finally flowers (heliconias, huge bunches of them). Thus loaded, it's back to the car and home with my plunder, the car fragrant, the day stretching ahead, what to do for dinner on my mind, and all at peace and as it should be.
I could almost compose a poem. In Praise of Saturdays.
Almost.