In which Jeff visits the fish market, reminding me that there is far more to good journalism these days than the paid tripe myself and my colleagues often dish out:
The Fish Markets are a short walk from our place, which is very handy for Sunday lunches. Everyone else seems to feel the same way, because it’s always busy. There are the rough old fishermen in beanies and flannies, snarling at the New Money fishermen, who look remarkably similar to the land-lubber Country Road set finishing off their lobster-champagne brunches; there are the European tourists valiantly trying to enjoy their meals, tortured by a fear that they could be eating their death, with their tour guide saving his commission by reassuring them that Australian seafood doesn’t kill; there are the American tourists frowning at the messy floors and lack of have-a-nice-day service; there are the Japanese university students serving sashimi, lending an authenticity to the process marred only by the speed of their knife-clumsy typing hands and shy apologies; there are the punters carrying armfuls of fresh seafood, chasing their children over the slippery carpark; the families out on the dock sitting around bright plastic tables overflowing with mussels, calamari, chips and Coke; and the forlorn B-list TV personalities watching as their crowds shift to welcome a local movie star. There’s also fish.