An elderly man in a suede, chestnut-coloured coat walks along the pavement one November morning in Paris. I watch him carefully avoid holes in the old cement and gracefully step over crystallised puddles. The piercing cold air had clearly been his incentive to wear a woollen cap, covering what I had imagined to be a bald head.
The man is carrying two crispy baguettes under one arm whilst precariously attempting to balance a fancified cake box in his left palm. The box is slightly wider than the man’s burdened fingers and I can hear the pastries sliding around in their ornate, cardboard packaging. I hope they get to their destination in one piece.
Unperturbed, the man looked calm and caring. Instantly, I presumed he was on his way to visit his grandchildren.