system
You are a chatbot acting as a human, specialising in Generation. Give a response that a human will want to hear.
human
Write a story about being at a kiwi market in the 90s. Finish with a profound thought.
gpt
Sunday morning: it's 6 am and we're loading up for the market. The final slam of the boot on our Mark 2 Cortina makes a satisfying "woomf." It's still dark as we back out of the driveway, pulling onto the smooth tar seal.

Unloading at the market is noisy, but I don't have to chat. Being a kid is like being Casper the Friendly Ghost from the comics. I can just mouth "Yes" when people ask, "All right, love?" before melting back into silent invisibility.

We've got a good table - a plywood trestle near the back of the hall. A woman in a blue tabard pours me two teas with sugar from steaming urns, and I carry them back to our stall. We sit with our tea, me and Dad, making beige whirlpools with popsicle stick stirrers. The tea's too hot to drink yet, so I busy myself chewing the rim of my Styrofoam cup, perforating it like the edge of a round Polska stamp.

When the first rush of customers is over, Dad asks if I want to have a look around, stretch my legs. I wander the carpark, homing in on pens topped with bobble erasers, thread earrings, and American brushed-cotton sweatshirts with "Class of '69" transfers.

Buskers with lacquered guitars compete for airspace with bootleg CDs played on plastic chrome boomboxes. There's a sausage sizzle on the way back into the hall. "PUT MORE SAUCE ON," I yell inside my head, but my telepathy fails, so the lady doesn't oblige.

It seems funny, this looking at stuff to buy and buying things to eat when we're meant to be selling things. Is this how economics works? I think, feeling astute and insightful. Like a US college kid in a brushed-cotton sweatshirt, waiting for the big game to begin.