Bob was in Paris. He took a photograph of these walls which stagger down to a back street, like giants’ stairs. The sun was low in the sky, the dark clouds had blotted up the rain, there was a guy wearing red trousers and his friend had a red scarf.

I wonder did Bob feel the tarmac road get cooler as he walked into the shade? Did he hear birdsong, or a car change gear, or a distant aeroplane? I don’t need to know though; I know that Bob was in this quiet street, when the sun was low in the sky and it was by chance the very day that some guy wore red pants and his friend had a red scarf.


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