Niort man

Wild haired, wild eyed, the drunk is limply staggering his way across the city square. Sliding one foot clumsily in front of the other he’s trying not to trip over the cracks in the paving stones. There’s a half-empty wine bottle in the pocket of his tattered blue jacket and the frayed, dirty ends of his grey trousers are dragging under his scruffy trainers.

He’s lurching up one side of the square then down the other, trying not to stumble over as he targets embarrassed passers-by for spare cash. Although he is not menacing, he is persistent – and it is paying off.

Occasionally he stops to takes a furtive look over his shoulder.

He sees us and starts to sway in our direction. We pretend to look in a shop window then duck inside as his crumpled reflection shambles nearer.

A woman of a certain age, whose aubergine hair matches the colour of her uniform, asks if we need any help. We realise we are in a lingerie shop. Among the corsets. Lots of them – the store is having a liquidation sale.

My partner politely makes our excuses and we leave.

Back in the square, the drunk has disappeared.

Some time later we’re tucked up a narrow street. I glance out of the bread shop window as I wait to be served.

A man is walking briskly past. His hair is combed into a short pony tail with a neat side parting. He’s wearing a smart brown leather jacket; smart lace-up shoes.

In his hands are two loaded plastic shopping bags. Inside the first are several large loaves of bread and a big net of oranges. No wine.

The other bag contains what looks like a bundle of dirty clothes. A half-empty wine bottle is slid down the side.

A pair of scruffy trainers sits on top.