It is Farmers' Market Saturday today. The farmers' market happens on the first and third Saturday of the month. I like farmers' markets, even though my backyard has been throwing me a lot of vegetables recently. There are other interesting things that my garden doesn't give me: local honey, salamis, baked goods, and other odds and ends.
There is a woman there who keeps goats, and uses their milk to make lotions, soaps, shower gel and the like. Once, months ago, I bought her handwash (identical to her shower gel) on a trial basis, and immediately fell in love. The problem was, I had just restocked everything with supermarket brands. It took me a fair while to use them - I wasn't about to waste them. Then I went back with an empty two-litre bottle, and asked her to work me out a bulk price and fill it for me, which she did. Now, I refill my conventional supermarket containers with her handmade product.
The problem with Farmers' Market Saturdays - and any Saturday - is that they follow Friday nights, when I am likely to be out singing. As, in fact, I was last night, and I was having an off night. I didn't cover myself with glory. Still, I didn't have the decency, either, to shut up and go home early, so this morning I woke up muzzy with exhaustion. As, in fact, happens on many a Saturday.
I looked at the alarm and thought: "I'm not going to go to the market," turned it off, and slept for another hour. Then I finally got up, rehydrated, and staggered off to the shower to use my lovely locally-made shower gel. Dressed. Went outside for a bit. Came back in. Sat down at the computer for a bit.
Then my phone made a noise of the "pay me attention" variety, so I had a look. Oh yes, that's right, soon I would have to be down at the library, where the flooded river was no longer licking the bottom course of bricks, for a book release. I didn't remember the details and I hadn't recorded anything, but I assumed it must have been at least slightly interesting because otherwise I wouldn't have booked myself in. So I turned up in good time.
The book was An Uncommon Hangman, by Rachel Franks. Its subtitle was just beautiful: "The Life and Deaths of ..." I liked that. I liked it a lot. A small group of other people who also somehow survived Friday night came along. Rachel stood up, and did her talk. I decided I liked it a bit more. It piqued me that while I was writing fictitious crime, she had written factual punishment. There was a nice circularity about my being there - I simply had to buy the book, now, and add to my pile of stuff-to-be-read. Bite that, Fyodor Dostoyevski!
Turns out that even though he was based in Sydney, he was regularly exported to regional areas to do their dirty work for them, and Dubbo had the largest number of his regional clients, so it was fitting she was presenting to us. He must have been a terrifying sight for them: not only was his the last face they would ever see which would make even an unremarkable face scary, but he wore no mask and had no nose!
He seems to have done all the work he possibly could, saved his money, invested in property, and left all of his numerous children comfortably off when he died. It does seem as though he was a devoted family man. You don't need to have good looks or even a nose, to have a heart. Gogol knew that!
After the talk I took my new acquisition away, and despite the fact that I really have no time for reading right now, and I'm halfway through reading something else anyway, I knocked over a couple of chapters to whet my appetite and make me want to come back to it when I do have time and I've finished what I'm already reading.
Rachel Franks' style is clear, conversational and appealing. Even in the text itself, she's candid about the conflicts and contradictions that came up during her research. So far, when that has happened, she's offered both stories, and made a value-judgement about which is more likely.
This is not a review. I've only taken the first bite out of what looks and smells like a mouth-watering meal. I'm keen to eat the rest of it at a more opportune moment.
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