An afternoon out

Three throaty, customised Peugeot 306s roar around the corner and into the market square. The rumbling, booming stereo systems herald their arrival long before the meticulous metallic bodywork and shiny chrome exhausts spin into the spaces normally reserved for the fruit and vegetable vans.

The engines are turned off; there’s an uncomfortable silence. An English woman is sat on a bench next to the undercover market. She looks at me as if to say “this could mean trouble.”

Behind the tinted windows you can seen shadows of close-cropped heads in sunglasses.

A tall, dark-haired man, Y-shaped and barely out of his teens, gets out from the driver side of the blue Peugeot. Dark tattoos up both arms, a cigarette between his fingers, he has whipped a studded leather belt through the loops in his drop-crotch jeans; it stops them from sliding even further past his hips and down his legs.

He walks around to the passenger side and leans through the window trying not to rest on the polished paintwork. He flicks the cigarette with his thumb and forefinger, rubbing it into the ground with the toe of a white trainer.

As quickly as his jeans will allow him, he runs towards the red and green Peugeots.

The drivers get out slowly, watching the man as he gets closer. Then one steps into his path, grabs his shoulders and plants a kiss on both his cheeks.

“Salut! Ca va bien?”

“Oui, ça va!”

From out of each Peugeot step more Y-shaped men. And girls with immaculate hair and long nails. They kiss cheeks and shake hands. And when the formalities are over they walk across the road to the Cafe de Boulevard where they order coffees and enjoy the sun.