Waiting for my train outside North End station Paris. A man is parked there in a black BMW, wearing dark glasses and what seems to be a kind of shaggy woollen jacket which must be very warm in the heat. He seems to be staring at me through the open window of the car though it is not clear that he is because of the dark glasses. I assume he is a chauffeur. He speaks into a mobile and continues to wait. For some reason, perhaps because his hair is slicked back, I assume he is the driver of some gangster. I shall be interested to see the look of the mobster who comes out of the station to get into the car.
There is suddenly an odd ruffling of his shaggy woollen jacket and I see that it is not a jacket at all but the hair of a little boy who is sitting in the passenger seat and now turns his head so that I can see his profile. And then the wife arrives from the station, a dowdy, plump woman. The driver, or rather husband, gets out of the car and helps her put shopping in the boot. He too is a plump man and the hair is not slicked back. It is thinning. He takes his glasses off to reveal homely, domestic pidgeon eyes. Just a little family unit. Not the mafia at all.