Every first Sunday of the month is termed “Market Day” in my home town. People set up stalls in the car park and side street, selling all kinds of things (from potted plants, to jams, to dolls clothes and swing sets). For the locals, this means busy streets full of tourists and/or out-of-towners, and therefore often means stocking up early to avoid the shops unless they absolutely positively need to buy a carton of milk. For the retirees, it’s a “lovely day” to peruse the town and take the grandchildren to lunch. For weekend employees (typically high school or uni aged students like myself), Market Day means no Sunday sleep in, extra staff and possibly the busiest day of trade in four weeks.
It’s not always the case, especially where I work, but today (Market Day, February 2013) we were busy. And now I am très fatiguèe. And for some reason still awake blogging at 11:15 pm when I stated to my mother the instant I got home that I needed an early night. Oh well, sleep is for the weak. It’s funny, because the cafe was dead quiet for the morning. But then there was a booking for ten people who all wanted food and coffees at once, and a few customers came in after we were technically closed. The sad thing is that I haven’t actually been to the market since I got a job 2 or 3 years ago, because I’m always working it!