One story, two tellings.

There was a little drama near when I live the other day. Enough to surprise my polite market town. Three men, chased by a police car and helicopter raced along the High Street and ended up crashing in the side of a wall. Nobody was hurt - though a few were shocked. The three men were taken into custody without any more drama, and the car removed. The only damage - a couple of stones broken on the stone steps leading to the church. It made the front page of the local paper, and there was chatter outside the supermarket, but it soon died down.

The impact on the traffic was, well, you can imagine. I was on a bus, trying to get home, with no idea what the hold-up was. I had a book to read, so wasn't bothered. But the kids on the bus, with their phones, knew all about it. I've no idea who took the first message, but the knock-on was wonderful.

Of course, they had to ring home to explain why they might be late. Their conversations went something like this:

Mum, I'm going to be late. No - don't be like that, it isn't my fault. No, it really isn't my fault. There's been a highjacking in town - I'm on the bus, but nothing is moving, we're all behind barricades ... the place is crawling with police, the sky full of helicopters, there are hostages ... loads of them ... guns, I'm sure I saw guns [we were well over half a mile away] .. all this screaming ... no, mum, I'm fine, don't worry about me, but the police suggesting there are spies, terrorists ... bombs under the Town Hall ... we're lying on the floor of the bus ... Al Qaeda ...

At the time I had no idea at all what was going on, and so could not tell if there was any truth underlying all these wonderful fantasies. We were simply stuck on a bus, going nowhere - with no information. But what fun these kids had, creating their own stories. I'm glad they weren't true, of course - but what great imaginations they have. (Maybe they should be writers!)

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.