He’s a constant patron of the large, uptown and cosy bakery. Every morning at he arrives in a chauffeured-driven metallic grey Mercedes Benz (which number plate I have not managed to catch, despite my trying a few times). Dressed in a light blue, short-sleeved shirt and grey pants, both of which are neatly pressed, matched with a warm, grey cardigan, he bears a striking pose at 1.8 m. Hunching a little as most elderly men (who are tall) do, he is aided by a walking stick and an attentive maid. As I watch him arrive at the bakery every weekday morning and going about his daily routine of a 20-minute breakfast, flanked on both sides by a helpful maid and a patient daughter (or daughter-in-law?), I’m reminded of how short life is, and how simple it should be.