FIDELMA COOK

DOWN the road in Toulouse, the Christmas market is in full swing in the glorious Place du Capitole. Tented chalets form avenues of excess as the illuminations drape the facades of the pink-bricked government buildings.

The smell of chestnuts and mulled wine hangs over the displays of gourmet food, wine and Armagnac.

Multicoloured silk scarves, cashmere jumpers and racks of clothes tumble between hand-carved toys, candles, soft leather and strange musical decorations.

Carols – mainly unrecognisable – are sung in competition with the more global “holiday” songs from American movies. I hear Mariah Carey’s coffers ching and ching again.

Tucked away in the Henry IV courtyard is a vibrant Provencal nativity. The courtyard is entered through the municipal HQ and its pink marble colonnades. Tucked away, because our strict separation of church and state does not permit an outward show of religious zeal except in special circumstances.

Under our state of emergency the outward show these days is left to the armed police, who patrol in pairs alongside excited children desperate to spot Pere Noel.

In neighbouring Place Wilson the carousel twirls as it does every day of the year but the shrieks of the children have that peculiar “Christmas is coming” intensity. And round and round go yet more police.

Small boys stare in wonder at these dark figures who remind themselves to smile so that fear is not engendered for the future. It must be a tough call for them, because normally fear is what they hope to engender.

Yet mothers still nudge their babes away and divert their eyes by pointing to another exquisitely bedecked tree. There is nothing vulgar in these decorations, further enhanced by classical backdrops and natural symmetry. It’s strange how quickly one re-tunes the way one looks at a troubled world.

I’m sure I’m not the only one this evening who imagines what this square would look like if the unimaginable happened – a terrorist attack (though in all honesty it is no longer unimaginable).

Such events have already happened in equally thronged celebrations in this country, where children and youth have gathered. So one scans the square for exits, for fast routes to safety or cover; assesses one’s chances. And I’m almost ashamed to say one scans faces and dress, surreptitiously making assumptions that sicken one as soon as they occur.

I watch a lovely young mother wave to two sweet boys on the carousel as she stands isolated, the crowds bunched together, on either side, but far from her.

Our eyes meet and I give what I hope is a pathetic, tacit smile of understanding. For a second she softens and smiles back but then returns quickly to her own watchful care of her children.

Assumptions had been made on the basis of her modest dress and the names she used to call and berate her sons as they bickered as to who would ride the outside horse.

God knows what I am doing here anyway. Actually I do. I suppose I have come to bring another experience to the column and fight off my isolation.

But Christmas markets need company to be truly enjoyed and so I meander past the stalls, bantering with stallholders who care only that I bought at their inflated prices.

Frankly the only thing I want to do is to climb upon a horse on that Place Wilson carousel and go up and down, round and round as the faces blur in my view.

All my life I have been drawn to carousels … but women of a certain age are not meant to climb aboard garishly painted fairground horses.

Once, not that very long ago at all, I would have simply done it, but now, still not sure if the pinned and plated leg will swing itself over, I simply watch, saddened at another loss.

Instead I settle for a coffee and a ringside seat in the Place du Capitole, whose beauty drew me here in the first place, and watch life parade again before me.

Around me in this university town, tables of laughing, hyped young people argue, discuss, disagree and bisou each newcomer. Overhead heaters keep us all warm although it cannot be deemed cold; hot chocolates are ordered in preference to wine and willingly I inhale, nay, suck in the heavy cigarette smoke all around me.

Again, I wonder how many have that frisson of worry; how many have worked out their exit strategy.

The young waiter comes over to see if I want something else. “Tell me,” I say. “Do you ever worry about a terrorist attack?”

“Are you on holiday?” he replies. “No, I live here.” “How long?” “Ten years.” “Well, then,” he says, “you should know already. Yes. And no. I can’t think too much or it would paralyse me. I think in seconds, moments and then, well, I come to work.”

Yes. Life is seconds, moments and just hoping for the best.

I need to remember this.