Cognac cafe society

Four large glasses of Stella are lined up on the bar at the pavement cafe in Cognac. Opposite each one sits an ashen-faced, charcoal-eyed Englishmen in a union flag T-shirt. Each of them is perched on a stool; each has one knee pulsing up and down as if on auto-pilot.

They stare at their own little spot behind the bar, trying hard to forget the little they can remember from the night before.

When they down one glass, they order another.

They don’t talk. They just stare. They slowly, painfully, smoke a cigarette, rub their shaven heads, flick ash onto the road.

In front of them are four broad-shouldered Frenchmen in suits and dark sunglasses. Their heads are shaved - they could be brothers. There is not enough space for their long legs under the cafe table.

They are enjoying the sunshine of a warm spring day; watching the world go by, each with a long-stemmed glass of white wine poured from the bottle in the ice bucket beside their table.