I’ve never discovered at what hour the day begins for the stallholders of the Place d’Aligre market. But if I awake at seven to stagger to the bathroom on my sleep-stiffened legs I can hear small sounds of almost-muted activity from the place (or square, but in reality a large semi-circle) in front of my apartment many floors below. Even though I can return to bed for another hour’s sleep, I cannot resist going into my salon to peek from the floor-to-ceiling window that looks over the place; and then I can just make out, by the light of the dozen or so lanterns that light the square, that the stalls are indeed already lined up in neat rows under their blue-and-white striped awnings in the gloomy dawn of this Paris winter.

The stallholders start packing up any time after about one o’clock in the afternoon. The hour differs each day but I haven’t managed to work out the pattern, although Saturday seems to be the earliest pack-up day. They leave wooden fruit crates and bags of leftovers around the square in about eight piles of varying neatness. As the last vans are departing, the gleaners move in. On a cold, wet day there will only be two or three at most, as there are today. They pick through the piles, even opening some of the black plastic bags. Today there are two women filling small plastic bags in this way. At another pile, obviously left behind by a clothing vendor, a man is trying on a waterproof jacket. He inspects it carefully first, then removes his own jacket, and his vest. Then he puts on the ‘new’ jacket. He does it up, flexes his shoulders to check the size. Satisfied, he leaves it on, folding up his previous garments neatly and putting them into a plastic bag.