ONE sunny lunchtime, I sat idly in the centre of Toulouse, France, while waiting for Ellie to return with the coffees. I was not being lazy: I was minding the suitcases, for if someone attempted to pinch them, I am just a shade better equipped to try and persuade them to change their minds about the venture.

No one attempted such a deed but I marvelled at the number of people walking around in the open, pulling suitcases. Then I reminded myself; we were outside the central station.

So my attention turned to other things, much dominated by the sight of so many different female forms, many of whom seemed to be sporting every style I have known women to wear over the last 50-odd years, from hot-pants to rah-rah skirts.

My wife delights in this variety of styles while I looked at some of them and wondered if they realised quite what they look like, for some styles do not suit the obese or the worryingly skinny.

When Ellie joined me, she asked if I had come to any conclusions, watching the girls go by. In fairness, it must be said, Ellie does her fair share of spotting and points out if she sees a well-shaped posterior or a nice pair of legs, drawing my attention to them, as well as the somewhat obese versions of the same.

I recall being stopped for speeding just outside Rouen some eight years ago and, shooting through the windscreen, Ellie took a photograph of my being breathalysed at 9.45 that morning. When I had paid my speeding fine and returned to the car and told her how much I had to pay, I had to laugh as she asked me if I had “noticed the policewoman had a superb bum”.

As she said, in the 60s, if you had an asset, you flaunted it and Ellie, along with many other women, studied form so to speak.

Of course, living in a more rural environment in the Tarn, we are not up to date on the big-city styles, although the local female bank clerks do wear some unusual outfits.

“Sitting here,” I said to my wife, “I think back to our observations when we revisit the UK. I am convinced young females from 17 to 24 are at least three-quarters of a stone heavier on average than their counterparts in 1961-68.”

I do not know if this is a scientific fact but that is how it strikes me, and many contemporaries. Has junk food made a serious contribution to the shape of young girls? Does the dispensing of high heels mean that girls’ calves are no longer the same shape and perhaps their derrieres are similarly affected? What my wife and I would consider a good female backside is not often seen.

I did not court any Twiggy clones in my youth for I preferred girls with a bit of upholstery, but most of them seemed to commute between the equivalent of dress sizes 10 to 12. Nowadays, I fancy there are not too many 18 to 22 year olds, rummaging the racks for tens or twelves.

We had time to kill before catching a train to Paris, so Ellie went off and bought a second cuppa for each of us. While she was away, my mental soliloquy was interrupted by the sound of an upright piano wafting on the breeze. Someone had left the doors open and the piano-player’s electrically amplified tinkling, was clearly heard outside.

I looked up, half expecting Monsieur Poirot to come mincing along, or a uniformed conductor in a peaked cap calling out for Wagonlit customers, while scores of people in hats walked by reading about the Munich Crisis. Perhaps I might see someone touting circular flights in the flying boat. The piano playing had taken the travelling experience and my mind to more genteel times, perhaps what I could only imagine as a pre-war feel.

What an excellent idea. The company installs the piano and it is up to the passing customers to take to the keys. You could try chopsticks if you are brave enough.

In my mind I commended Toulouse station for their enterprise and style but it proved not to be a one-off: at Paris Montparnasse, we emerged to find a commuter in a suit committed to relaxing at the keys. It must be a nice outlet, after a heavy day’s work, letting off steam at the piano - perhaps their choice of music reflecting the tempo of the working day.

This young man was involved in a melody of progressions involving C. Am, F and G, one which most of the doo-wop and pop of my childhood was based; Little Darlin’, Diana, Young Love, Teenager in Love and All I have to do is Dream.

It was uplifting but I could not help wondering how long such an item would last at Euston or Baker Street.

It constituted a nice start to our 15-day trip, in which we planned to take in four capitals., cramming in as many sights as possible while we are still able to pull a suitcase or for that matter, still remember we have one. It is nice to be able to indulge in such things and, just sitting there in Toulouse, watching the French world go by, we did ponder for the millionth time, how lucky we are.

As we looked forward to the trip to Budapest, Vienna, Prague and back to Paris, little did we suspect we would be slightly tired and cultured-out by the time we got back to Gare Austerlitz in Paris, ready to catch the train back to Toulouse.

There, we reflected the people in Prague tended to be slightly scruffier, while Ellie observed the younger women in dress and deportment in Vienna did not reflect the elegance of the capital’s buildings.

“The best looking women/girls were in Budapest. They dressed with style,” she said.

I recalled one Budapest lunchtime when we waited for the pedestrian crossing light to change to green, when my eyes alighted on a blonde with long hair, tanned, long legs in light brown high heels. She wore a tan waistcoat over her blouse and a matching but short mini-skirt. Her face was superb and her blonde hair hung down her back.

She was wearing a gold pendant, which nestled in her cleavage and, while I was not paying her that much attention, I should reckon she was around five-foot-seven, perhaps five-foot-seven-and-a-half inches tall. I cannot tell you much more for she faded from view as my backward glance was aborted while I stumbled over the rise in the pavement and reacted quickly enough to make it seem I had decided to enter a brief canter.

“Remember the blonde in Budapest?‘ my wife asked, clearly agreeing with my assessment. "I don’t blame you for gawping at her. I would settle for looking like that - right now.”

The blonde could have walked straight from that road crossing onto a catwalk . . . after firstly parking her bike, which she was sitting on. Yes in Budapest, even the cyclists had style.