The Pyrmont Growers market is where I became an adult.

The transition was of course slow. My dad started taking me with him to sell orange juice at Pyrmont bay when I was five. It was not really a choice for us - my mother’s health had deteriorated so much that sadly she could not work anymore. So, with twins on the way, and a young family to feed (including an overweight labrador, whose appetite never ceased) my father started his second job. We were not really in a position at the time to hire a second pair of hands, so I became his ‘business partner’. Each Friday afternoon, we would pack our juice machine, table cloths, cups and sign into the back of his old Mercedes Benz. The following morning, at 2.59am, we would wake up and stumble into the van. I was still wrapped in my doona; with a pillow attached to the side of my head. However, after half an hour of driving, my exhaustion seemed to wear off. It was strange, but my father and I had some of our best conversations on the M5 to Sydney. Deep discussions of John Howard and his flaws - of family histories and of pumpkin soup recipes that had been passed down via family lines. Soon, it would be five o’clock, and we would be pulling into the Flemington Markets, where we would pick up the most integral ingredient to our homely stall - the oranges. These glowing, ripe balls were like orbs of sunshine to us. They represented a month's worth of electricity, of hot baths and yummy breakfasts.

Then we would arrive at the Pyrmont markets and set up our stall. We were positioned with our backs to Sydney Harbour - to this day, the best view in Sydney. To our left we had the Strawberry couple - John and Dianne. They would sell beautiful, plump strawberries, dipped in white and dark chocolate. To our right we had the French Bakery - off whom I learnt snippets of French.

In between customers, I would walk around with an armful of cups and a jug of orange juice, trying to sell juice to the other stall holders. My dad sent me because he said that I had better people skills. What he really meant was - they much more likely to pity you over me. Anyway, this was where I had the most fun. Sometimes I would have a hard job convincing the stall holders to buy my juice. So instead, I developed a strategy. I would offer them the option of swapping - exchanging orange juice for an item that the stall holder sold that was of the same, or similar value. I was ecstatic when I would return to my dad with bunches of flowers, hazelnuts, honey, olive oil, bean sprouts, apples, figs and, cheese! My dad used to say that he could tell whether or not I had been successful without looking up from the morning paper or without spilling any juice from the jug, by the speed at which I ran back to him. My feet would clatter along the boardwalk.

One of the most special things about the markets was that everyone there had another life as well as the role that they played at the market. Some were in a similar position to us - family circumstances made it necessary to take on methods of earning money on the weekends. I am proud to say that the money we saved got me through high school, and I am also proud that now I can support myself independently without my parents help. They have already helped me so much.

It saddens me that I am now probably too old to run around with my jug of orange juice and my stack of cups. But I still continue to visit Pyrmont Bay. Serendipitously, it just so happens that as a result of joining the running society, I have the opportunity to go to Pyrmont Bay every Monday morning as part of a tradition that we call the Opal runs (I’ll let you fill in the gaps for that one). To be honest, I would return there even if the Opal runs stopped. It was, after all, where I became an adult.

On another note, I fell in love with the Modern Guru edition of the Sydney Morning Herald Good Weekend magazine from many early Saturday mornings in the company of my dad at Pyrmont Bay Markets. Over orange juices and a hot breakfast, we would divide the Saturday paper between us, and read through until we had a customer arrive at our stall, demanding a freshly squeezed juice at seven am in the morning. Not an unreasonable request at all, just frustrating when you are in the middle of a really good news article.  

(Note the unfinished ending).