Sitting in a street cafe on a Sunday morning, in a square which pays tribute to Italian soldiers lost in the war, the cosmopolitan mixture of people who make up the pallet of sectors of society cannot be avoided by the observant eye. There, in a market ambiance, it is easy to understand one's place in society, and to appreciate the difference between how people present themselves and how the world actually views them.

The old lady with a bent back tugs wearily on her shopping trolley which has seen better days, bumping over the pavement edges on fragile wheels which match the fragility of its owner. A Chinese lady in black ballet shoes and hideous red socks stands at the pelican crossing in her brightly colored smock, giving no hint of shape, it's tent like form flowing to beneath her knees. Her eyes are old and tell tales of sadness.

The sports conscious youth runs through the crowd in his shorts and tee-shirt desperate in his intent to make his body stronger and more attractive, while the middle aged man jogs with sagging flesh and shorts which hang like loose drapes over legs which are bent with age. The perspiration on his face flashes in the sunlight, and the gray roots of his hair give away signs of vanity.

The couple who stop at the side of the road are dressed in parrot fashion, one copying the other though from the strength of character displayed by the wife, and the almost apathetic acceptance of life reflected in the face of her husband, one cannot contemplate that his life is other than hen pecked by her ideas and ideals.

Where do dreams go? Where does beauty go? Why do people all look so different and have so many approaches to life. Even in the simplicity of a Sunday morning market in Toulouse, the diversity of those people who make up the picture of life is indeed stretched to limits. Young students with slim waistlines and long legs dress in simple clothing that clings to their shapes in proud display, while older ladies tee shirts stretch around bodies which strain and bulge with over indulgence.

The men in long shorts, fashion followers, attempt to keep their street credibility though lose it by wearing clothing too young for their stature, pot bellies overflowing waistlines. Only the young can boast the bodies to wear those styles which ridicule middle age. The arthritic lady with staid black shoes which cripple her grasps her handbag in hands which are crumbled out of shape by time, while crooked fingers hold her

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