Low life | 10 November 2016

I didn’t fancy the hotel breakfast, so I wandered into Arles old town looking for a café. The weather and the season had changed overnight. The day before had been hot, golden and still. This morning an icy wind was yanking the last of the dying leaves from the plane trees and my thin canvas jacket was no defence against it. Choosing a café at random on the Place du Forum, I pushed through the glass door and took a seat in the warmth of the café’s conservatory. Three other customers were inside, lingering over their coffee. I chose a bench seat, from where I could look south across the square. A big, blowsy, all-action waitress cantered up. I asked her for a cup of coffee, a croissant and a glass of orange juice. She rematerialised almost immediately with these items and slid them on to the table with a friendly absence of ceremony.