Notes from Paris

The sun was bright but temperatures were freezing. The sky was blue with swirling clouds like milk in coffee. Fluffy clouds.

People walked briskly, hands in pockets, vapour from their mouths. The children's playground filled with wet sand, abandoned because of the cold.

The streets got busier as the morning lengthened. The man was back walking his dog. A magnificient animal, white fur with greyish hue. Our British bus-driver got across the road.

The train rambled past, almost silently from where I was.

The trees were ravaged by the elements of winter.

A family of four emerged from the building across. A residential building I suppose. The kids, oblivious to the cold, pranced around. Parents stood and waited, breathing in the morning air. A man walked into the building, smoking a pipe.

Live European sports from a Scandinavian country was on the telly. Outside, the low buildings were of different heights, shapes and sizes. Small streams of smoke were merging from some.