From the roof of a Banbury multistorey car park (1)

The wind's cuttingly cold up here, but the bright sun and clear blue sky are irresistible. The town roofscape's tiles, cornices, gables and chimneys are made vivid by the sunlight: bright colours, clear contrasts, sharp shadows, the mirage-like haze of light around the buildings that are directly between me and the sun.

Down below, the Saturday morning shoppers ebb and flow between the car park, the market, and the more extensive shopping precincts beyond. This early in the morning - before all the hormone-rich gangs of teenagers have surfaced from the zombie-lairs of their bedrooms - the small crowd is a mix: elderly couples in matching grey and dun, the women's hair haloed with white light where the sun slants between the buildings; couples pushing buggies; lone males; lone females carrying trays of bright spring planting; and - it seems to me - an overrepresentation of couples with contrasting body shapes - fat boy/thin girl, or fat girl/thin boy.

I notice an old bloke limping unsteadily away from the market, towards the car park, placing the point of his walking stick carefully in the brick pavement as he walks slowly, slowly. The pavement glistens with melted frost, and it's hard not to feel concerned for him. His irregular gait speaks of effort and pain. His hair is thin - he should be wearing a hat. Then I see that there's a woman keeping pace with him - his daughter? She's probably forty years younger than him, but she's matching his speed: at each step, her foot describes a slow, flat circle before she plants it back on the pavement. Her hands are clasped behind her, as if they're holding her back, or reining her in.

She looks sideways at him now and again as he puffs his way up the slight incline. The streams of shoppers part as they approach him, flowing around him as if he were a broken-down car on a busy road. As he reaches the car park's stairwell, almost directly below me, I see him pause, switch the stick to his other hand. As he starts moving again, I see him sway, starting to lose his balance, and the woman just reaches out and touches his elbow with her finger tips, as if she knows the exact place to apply the correcting force.

There's so much love and tenderness in that slow walk, in that simple touch. In that relationship, you can see yourself and your own parents. And you can see your own end.

They go into the shadows of the stairwell.