We're walking through the Saturday market.
It's always cold. Something to do with all that concrete. My nose feels cold. But something in this adversity lends itself to the determined act of remaining happy.
Happiness is always being assailed from all angles. Being among these traders and shoppers, their eccentric dress and smiles, kind of rubs off.
A woman in a leopard -skin coat stands with her back to me. Blonde hair flows down her back. High heel boots. When she turns round the folds in her face say that she's somewhere around seventy six.
Her husband wears a long grey coat and a moleskin trilby. Black suede winkle-pickers on his feet. Sharp enough to cut your throat on. Silver tips on the toes. Boot-string tie at his neck, knotted under some kind of silver pendant inscribed with I can't make out what so I just keep following my cold nose.