I've just sat down at a table in a cafe on the side of a busy road. It's shaded by plane trees and the tables are on cobbles. In the furthest corner, and with his back to the wall and sitting on a large, two seater, rattan settee is an enormous man, he is fat, not just with a belly like a beer drinker, but swollen like a ripe marrow, every part of him is fat. His shirt is of the Hawaiian style and must have been specially made to fit him, it's red and the buttons are stretched to bursting, perhaps he has put on weight since he had it made. His face is made from latte blancmange with pock marks and it quivers as he moves. To his side is a rather nasty looking weasel faced man with sly eyes and tattoos on his arms that look like DIY jobs, the sort that exprisoners have, they are smudged with age. A few moments ago a very scruffy looking man with long greasy looking hair and seriously in need of a wash approached and handed some money to Mr Big, but Mr Big wouldn't deign to touch it and gestured with a flick of his hand to weasel face. Weasel face didn't count the money, he just wrote on the top note, rolled it into a tube and then put an elastic band around it and put it in his pocket. Finally Mr Big gestured with a flick of the back of his hand that the meeting was over and the visitor was to leave, he backed away almost tugging his forelock and bowing. So I'm not sure what I have witnessed, drugs, protection, extortion, money lending? I'd like to take a photo but it's probably not a good idea. Now Mr Big has been brought three or four croissants by the proprietor and is proceeding to consume them in a kind of orgy of gluttony with small flecks of puff pastry adhering around his blancmange face.