Perhaps we should just go over to pictures only for the rest of the year. At the end of another day, I find myself once again tired and unmoved to write--though I will tell you that when I crept out of the college this morning, as my family slept on in my friend's flat, the sun and sky were humid and warm-cool as though spring were paying an advance visit. And I will tell you that in the market, I said, "I need apples!" and the boy at the produce stand I'd chosen said, "Excellent, madam, what would you like?" and I ordered eight each of Braeburns, Coxes, and Pink Ladies. And having the fruit for my pies slung into a bag on my shoulder made me decide to buy not one but two bouquets of Christmas tulips from the flower stand on the corner, even though the bouquets together cost £10. I will tell you that the whole market square had the sound and smell of a great day's morning, people buying beetroot and carrots and figs and celeries and cabbages and clementines, people getting cranky with their elderly mothers because said mothers were proposing to feed too many people with too small a bag of potatoes, people selling cheeses, people selling sheepskins, people carrying rolls of wrapping paper and boxes of Christmas crackers. I will tell you that the piles of brussels sprouts were truly prodigious.
I will tell you that as I headed for home with pounds of apples on my back, loaves of bread and bags of sugar and flour in my hand, I felt happy both to be by myself for the walk and to think that so many other people were getting ready to do something much like what I did for the rest of the day: eat, go to pubs, eat, bake, and eat some more. And then talk, and talk and talk.