Write a four line poem about something: odd.
It was a bit of a strange market this morning, as things were moving very slowly. We didn't sell our final pint of raspberries until after noon and typically we're sold out of berries by eleven at the latest. And when we only have a few to begin with?
We're lucky to make it to opening before they're all gone.
Like, just as an example, our three pints of blackberries this morning.
We also brought home a lot of apricots, which was disappointing. Hopefully between our local customers, the bakery, and the restaurant we'll be able to move most of them. Plus if we can keep them in the cooler they might still be good for next weekend.
But from speaking to a few other vendors, it sounds like it was a slow day for everyone. I guess it was too hot for a street market for a lot of people, so they went to the beach instead?
People just keep walking...
Are they blind? Can't they see?
We've got lovely produce...
What's wrong? They want it free?