DOWN the road in Toulouse, the Christmas Market is in full swing in the glorious Place du Capitole. Tented chalets form avenues of wonderful 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 foodstuffs, wine and of course Armagnac.

Multi-coloured silk scarves, cashmere jumpers, racks of clothes, tumble between hand-carved toys, candles, soft leather and strange, musical decorations of which Continentals seem inordinately fond.

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 outward show of religious zeal except in special circumstances.

The outward show these days, under our State of Emergency, 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 overwrought 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. However, they try.

Yet, mothers still nudge their babes away and divert their eyes by pointing to yet another exquisitely bedecked tree. There is nothing vulgar or tawdry 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 sees flashed images of this square if the unimaginable happened – a terrorist attack.

Probably, because it is no longer unimaginable.

It, they, 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’re thought.

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

Our eyes met and I gave what I hoped was a pathetic, tacit smile of understanding. For a second she softened and smiled back but then returned 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 was doing here anyway. Actually I do. I suppose I came to bring another experience to the column and fight off my isolation.

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

Frankly the only thing I wanted to do was to climb upon a horse on that Place Wilson carousel and go up/down, round and round as the faces blurred 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 would swing itself over, I simply watched…saddened at another loss.

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

Around me in this university town, tables of laughing, happy, hyped young people argued, discussed, disagreed and bisoued each newcomer.

Overhead heaters kept us all warm although it could not be deemed cold; hot chocolates were ordered in preference to wine and willingly I inhaled, nay, sucked in, the heavy cigarette smoke all around me.

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

The waiter, too young still to have perfected the curl of contempt, came over to see if I was OK and wanted something else.

"Tell me," I said. "Do you ever worry about a terrorist attack?" I asked as bluntly as I tell it now.

"Are you on holiday?" he replied.

"No, I live here."

"How long?"

"Ten years."

"Well, then," he said, "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.