On Saturday mornings I go to the produce market and buy sour dough bread, fruit and vegetables and flowers. Usually it does not take long - the worst thing is the Saturday morning traffic and finding a parking spot. This market is open each Saturday, sunshine or rain. The flowers are cheaper and better than at the florist's or the supermarket. Before moving to Sydney I never bought flowers, as I grew my own and managed to have something, however small, to pick for most of the year round. But after moving here, to a house with a very limited space, I started buying flowers. Dr P, who had little aesthetic sensibility, did not think much of my buying flowers (and his daughters commented adversely in their affidavits about this extravagance) but I took no notice. And I continue to buy flowers - lilies, in particular, and alstroemerias, and they give me great pleasure.
That the bread stall and the flower stall knows what I buy, that the local cafe remembers how I like my occasional cappucino, that the sushi bar remembers my preference, and that the patisserie remembers my liking for spinach, that the pharmacy, the bank and the post office staff know me, all these give me some pleasure. Although alone, I am not absolutely anonymous. Little human interactions, in themselves of no great importance, do make a difference.
The woman two doors away with the two black scotties said hello this morning. First time ever! But there is silence in the neighbouring house across the lane, and no lights. The old lady is about 97. Although I have met her a few times, she never remembered me - too old, and eyesight too bad. The last time I spoke to her daughter, who called to see her each Saturday morning, she said her mother was failing. The car left just as I got back from the market, so it was not possible to enquire. Perhaps she has had to go to hospital or a nursing home - or perhaps she has died.
Weekends tend to make me feel rather morbid.