The Fairfield Farmers Market is pretty good. Purple cauliflower. Heritage carrots. Pretzels not as good as my father makes but still excellent. Near the entrance I overheard a woman say 'I am so hungry' with an intonation that struck me as so Fairfield, 2014, and while I know I can't put my finger on it right now why that was the case, it so was.
I dreamt I was in New York for three days. Keir Reeves had told me about a man he had just met and I had long vaguely known who was in town - perhaps staying with Keir who was also in town? (Is that an Australian thing to talk about even New York, the greatest city on earth reputedly, as 'town'?) This man was known as a poet but Keir was enthusing about his short stories. The place I was staying had a copy of these stories but it meant shuffling around in sleeping people's bedrooms to find it. I tried one and got no joy. Barry was there, and he really wanted to go for a walk. I was looking forward to taking him out along the waterfront where there was a very fine early 20th century flour mill building. I had a conversation with a New York woman who was impressed (as was I) at my extensive knowledge of the formative nexus between flour milling, the rollout of electricity networks, and property development in early 20th century New York.