We were half way round some shops in Nice when I realised I was shoplifting.

The town hadn't been quite as I expected, but what do you know as a kid of fifteen?

Sure, it had its palm trees, boulevards, luxury hotels and special beaches for the rich and famous but not for someone backpacking south with a currency of dreams.

I found myself wandering the back streets looking for cheap places to eat every day.

Then I met Joe. Rather he introduced himself to me and to some of his exclusive properties.

He had gotten lost at the end of the war after selling his jeep. One thing had led to another and here he was in the nineteen sixties, master of all.

"Take look around," he said. "All this belongs to me." His hand swept a neat square of chic shops. "All this?" I was impressed. "And there's more, let me show you." I fell in and followed G.I. Joe around. "Here on your own?" I nodded. "Where you living?"

"Tent city," I said. It resembled a refugee camp with aging marquees and full of people you didn't question.

It came alive at night with raging bonfires and cheap plonk and fights. You slept with your cash stuffed down your pants.

"Your folks mind you travelling?" Joe looked concerned.

"My dad's dead and my mum gave me a key of the house providing I don't bring trouble home."

"Wise lady," Joe said stuffing a handful of postcards into my pocket, then a leather belt. I passed on the goggles and flippers.

"It's on me," he insisted. It was a relief meeting a friendly person at last.

We rounded the next corner. Lend me your towel, he said.

He entered the shop and returned with a swathed chicken. How could I have been so naïve?

"See you around," I said watching him unwrap his bundle and tear at its flesh.

"What about your towel?" he said wiping his hands.

"You keep it Joe," I said with a shrug.

John Greeves - Magor - 2002

Read Fragility - also by John Greeves.