Out at 7:30, the streets fogged. Parked cars invisible after 100 yards. It’s still. A Day After feeling. A pinch and a punch for the first of the month. Walking past houses that are still asleep. The bright pots of flowers on the concrete steps – in memoriam. Past the house of the woman who’s lost her mind (she calls out to passersby to remind her it’s Monday). Voices within. A luminous green skeleton hangs in the door one down.

Last night there were only two calls. Each time a small gang of kids in sheets and make-up. In the shadows a group of parents just making sure. “Hallowe’en!” ... “Trick or treat!”. I distribute sweets and close the door. It’s a ritual that has nothing to do with Belgian society or culture. The masks, witch hats and other paraphenalia confirm encroaching Americanisation and cynical consumerism. Even in England I don’t remember it being much of an occasion – Guy Fawkes and fireworks, yes. Then again, that’s an unlikely tradition to take root here.

No one is queuing in the bread shop. I ask for“un six cereales et deux pistolets”. The woman behind the counter is puzzled and I explain – “je suis seul ce weekend ... les filles sont à Paris”. “Ah – c’est comme ça pour vous artistes” is her reply – disconcerting or inaccurate or perhaps she’s confusing me with someone else? Two cents change.

And so today. Just me and the two cats.