Prose – thoughts from a Wellington Inner City Street

How incensed and incest the fruit market is. Day in, day out, the Orientals stand about and banter to each other , quietly, about the local gossip of this and that, while the taller White Men yell and expound and bout the auction room – sounds of selling food.

The trucks congest and compete for the non existent parking space in the ground-level eves of the green building, well labelled in yellow – “Wellington Produce Exchange Ltd”. The trucks silently fill up with the daily produce, grown tenderly over months, and quenched daily by anonymous provincial and urban dwellers.

The day develops and so does the traffic congestion, as people try to move in and out – innocent of reality. “This street is out of bounds to tourist drivers between 7 and 9.00am!!!”

Inside wandering about, the aromas of the freshest fruit and vegetables must be one of the sweetest possible scents humanity can realise. In amongst the boxes of lettuces and cabbage the White men – (some even in blue and white coats) project about the carrots and freesias – their tones modulate – up and down – frenetic rhythms, while wiser yellow eyes and other pale skin quietly wake up with morning chat and paper cups of hot coffee – to add to the adrenaline of the day.

How exciting!!! An experience I have dreamed of and yearned for, and finally fulfilled, and wandering out to my obedient canine – dressed with bow tie as always – loyal – excited – ready for work. Another day in the city.

Two hours later – very little has changed. More trucks are located and goaded with the food of life.