I'm not talking about the man who sits next to the cash machine at HSBC across the street. He's a street drinker and when he's not there (where does he go?) there's a lovely dirty greasemark that he leaves behind on the wall to remind us of his presence. Truly, it's like his own little Turin shroud.
And I'm not talking about my favourite homeless boy - the one who lives on the other side of the main avenue outside the house. The one with the 'Pet Shop Boys Road Crew' t-shirt. He drinks Breton cider. And he's quite cute. I usually slip a euro or two into his pot while he's asleep. And no, that's not a euphemism.
I'm actually talking about the folks that live in tents just up the street.
This makes my neighbourhood sound really awful doesn't it? It's not, it's just popular with the homeless. Hmm. That sounds bad too. I give up.
So, the folks that live in the tents were having a good old party tonight. I walked past on my way home from a, erm, date tonight and there they were, giving it large. They had music on (how?) and they'd got a good old bar set up.
One of the men had a fishing rod out and was wielding a plastic cup on the end of it into the street, trying to get donations from passing cyclists.
He managed to tangle up two Vélib' cyclists in his line, causing them misery and pain - much like they cause us foot-folk on a daily basis in Paris. Watching them trying to fight their way out of the mess they'd got caught in was spectacular. The boy cyclist looked like he was about to cry. Hilarious for me, but I know I'd have been furious if I'd been the cyclist.
For this, the homeless guy got my thanks, my praise, a mini applause and a two euro coin. Worth every single cent.
Oh and the date? What can I say? He was a skater boy.
I said, "see you later boy".
And I'm sure I will, too.