Looking up

As you know, a week or so ago, I was in Lille, and in spite of my falling-down bathroom I still have things about Lille I want to write about. I love cities - and not just the obvious things, the cafes and museums and art galleries, the theatres, the general confusion of who is working and who simply enjoying themselves.

I love the corners, the bits we don't often look at, the alleyways (which often whiff a bit) and courtyards with the shock of bougainvillea falling down a staircase. And sometimes - I look up.

In Lille, I looked up, to find many wonderful attic windows which set me thinking: who lives up there?

This, I decide, is home to a poet. She works in a restaurant, and by the time she gets home her hands are raw from hours spent peeling vegetables or washing up but nothing can keep her from her poems. She plays with words all night, falling asleep when the cock crows and waking just in time to struggle back to work.

That little window, right at the top ... three student musicians live there. They have one stove, and no fire, so in the winter they must huddle together for their fingers are too cold even to play a trumpet. But in the summer, when the sun shines, sometimes they open the window and glorious music sweeps across the square below and passersby stop, listen, know that they are hearing something precious.

A young lawyer lives here. He pours over his books till his eyes ache. One day, he promises himself, he will earn enough to own this building, and then he will replace this dreadful modern glass with its ancient counterpart and the building will be at peace with itself again.

Look behind the windows - and onto the roof. That look-out tells a story more terrible than any fiction.

For this is Northern France.

In a corner of Lille ...

It was hot - goodness it was hot. And, given that it was Monday and most of the shops were closed, I had the streets almost to myself.

Which meant I could notice all the quirky things that might normally be hidden in the bustle of city life. For instance, I found a wonderful yellow door, covered in writing. I'm sure it was something to do with the theatre, as there were other theatrical shops around and a sign of a woman with a splendid feather in her hat hanging above the door.

But it was the door that intrigued me, its very yellowness, and all its words.

The problem is: my French is dreadful. So here I need your help. I have here a random four extracts, all scattered in various places on the door - and since I don't know what they mean I have no idea if I've selected nothing but trivia and ignored the deep and meaningful. I suspect these are quotations from plays? If any are truly rude, then I apologise. And, as you will see, the writing crosses lines in the door as if they aren't there, so some bits are quite difficult to see.

Is this something about an outrage? An assassin?

I think I get this - a cousin has said something bizarre - I wonder what? There must be a story there.

Is someone arriving during a quarrel? Why do I need to know that?

This is possibly the most difficult to see - but please tell me it doesn't mean I love your fat bum?

When this is posted, I'll be in France masquerading as a travel writer!

This feels a bit unlikely - given that I'm writing this in my kitchen, with the radio on and traffic trundling by and children running fingers along my railings.

But I was approached by Ceri Wheeldon, who runs the great site for older women - Fab After 50. What -  you don't know it? She's committed to raising the profile of older women, to challenging beliefs of invisibility, question the conviction that the ups and downs of the menopause make us into wild things and the myth that our brains and usefulness disappears with our fertility. There's money stuff there, and relationship stuff there, and general looking-after-yourself stuff there, and if you haven't seen it before go and have a look now (but please come back!!).

Anyway, Ceri sent me an email - she's offered trips from time to time, from companies wanting her to comment on this place or that place from the point of view of an older woman. She's a busy woman, and can rarely do them. Was I interested ............

I was astonished! Me - being asked to do proper travel writerly things! Packing the passport because someone has asked me to write something specifically for her! So I danced round the kitchen, and then replied to Ceri without too many whoops betraying just how amazing it all is.

So here I am, in Lille (well, I will be when you read this), being a travel writer, with a coach trip to write up for the Fab After 50 site when I get home.

I'm not one for labels. They rarely fit comfortably - generally I try to shrug them off. I'm a woman, with children and grandchildren; I travel and I write, and I sit in my garden and read.

But, today - and who knows, this might happen again one day - I am a travel writer. And it feels wonderful!!