Around twenty minutes before the decent would reach its terminal conclusion, I fell asleep, the Airbus landing, front or side wheels making ominous thunk-thunk-thunk across the apron, the usual rattling of the grounded can, a cessation of metallic, nagging engines waking me up. Slightly late. I buy chocolate.

I fall asleep again between Nord and Gare du Midi. My suitcase handle is broken. James says I can buy a cheap carry-on at Muji. I stumble through breakfast with Gala, not seen since April. She says here is my first home. We walk through the city, becoming familiar now, on my fifth visit (perhaps sixth?), fall into a bookshop, fall out again, an urgent need to sleep stalking me, overcomes me.

For some time now I’ve been thinking of photographing the dancers around me, friends, people I know from class also, but friends first. The thoughts of how, portraits perhaps where they dwell, or in rehearsal, or in that liminal moment coming off stage, departed from but before returned to self.

I recognise each of my friends, and other dancers by their feet. I can see a pair of feet from ground-level and know to whom they are attached. So it seemed only fitting I’d photograph feet. It turns out to be difficult.

Gala’s feet I have known – along with the rest of her – for six years now. I’m sure I’ll come up with a better photo in the coming days, but…