I've just been to Marylebone farmer's market. It has become a regular Sunday fixture and is done in the name of quality of life. I am sliding my few pence into the 'Retard the decline of the Roman empire' tin in hope, blind hope, much like the faith aspect of a certain religion, that the success factor for human-kind, the path that we lost in our endeavour to conquer all, dominate the physical and metaphysical, shall be delivered once again to a bearded, mattered and wisdom-spouting old crank on the mount of marinaded olives, Primrose Hill. I am exercising my choice not to be subjected to shit. I'll choose the animal I eat, I want to know its name, the farmer's name, and I want his daughter's number.

The farmers' market adds a little atmosphere of country in the city. For four hours every a Sunday people prod fresh produce, sample freerange meats and organic vegetables in the hope (once again) of securing a nice find, that, if not consumed on the day will most likely perish. The return of the perishible vegetables. It boggles my mind that if you buy a carrot from any supermarket, you could leave it out for two weeks and it would still be as fresh and snappy as the day you bought it. This is because they are produced for high yeald and length of shelf-life. One of my organic carrots wouldn't survive 48 hours unrefrigerated.

The first thing I do when I get to the market is order half a dozen oysters for immediate consumption. The bearded, tattooed, burly and hardened men of the sea shuck them there and then and provide a range of condiments (for safe eating) in the form of shallot vinaigrette, lemon wedges and black pepper. Oysters, by the way are a wonderful, life replenishing cure, or at least aide in massaging a hangover.

I returned with a commendable bounty of bacon, gammon, rump steak, pigs trotters and tail (for my veal stock), fresh apple juice, eggs, red snapper, pollock and trout fillets. The week ahead looks good, and will most likely revolve around food, as usual.

Last weekend I travelled to Wales to visit Andrew & Co. Andrew got me to go over for the Guardian Hay festival. The Hay fesival is a literary and general cultural festival that runs for a week. It is set in Hey-on-Wye at the foot of the Black mountains and is possibly the most charming town I have ever encountered. It is no bigger than 500 by 300 yards, is steeped in arcadian surroundings with hedgerows and sheep and has at its centre a hill with a castle built on top, from which the entire town can be seen. The town is a town of bookshops, and not much else. The bookshops share the town with coffee shops and a few food shops, a hotel and old stone houses with plush English gardens (Welsh actually, why should a garden in Wales be called English?); it has everything for a weekend away. There are 40 bookshops in Hay-on-Wye, I was confounded that such a place could actually exist. I returned from Wales with books and bags of food. Last week was a good week.