I sit at the entrance to a small hotel just up from the Democracy Monument in Bangkok, sipping from a paper cup of coffee bought from the 7/11 next door. The ‘dee-do’ of the door-opening tone of the shop is incessant, as girls from the school opposite (Drug-Zero School a sign proudly boasts), neatly turned out in white blouses with sailor collar and blue bow, stock up on snacks for breakfast and breaks – packets of crisps and curly things, basically anything where the packet has more protein and nutritional value than the contents.

Cars drop kids off at the school gate and I watch a young lady carry a large, carefully wrapped box with a broad pink ribbon and bountiful bow. The paper wrapping is either economical or tongue-in-cheek, because it is sheets of newspaper, complete with colour photographs of local dignitaries.

Directly across from where I sit a lady street vendor begins her day. I’ve watched her on a few occasions; always fashionably dressed with well cut hair, auburn with a deep red tint and a fringe (for some reason referred to these days by the Americanised ‘bangs’). Today she’s wearing bum-hugging trousers of pink, brown, dark beige (a colour once known as taupe), and a sleeveless top of white-on-white floral design. She spends her day at a small plastic-covered table under a large plastic sunshade of green, yellow, red and blue panels that hasn’t seen a wash since the last rainy season.

As the cars arrive our lady sets out a row of plastic bollards to prohibit them, possibly to reserve the space for her street-vendor friends, although the bollards are usually ignored by drivers as there’s just enough space between each to park a Mercedes or 4-wheel drive. She wanders off, and comes back a few minutes later to see a policeman stacking her bollards and clearing them from the road. He tries to pile them on his motor scooter but she obviously has some clout because he gets a good talking too. He calls in on his radio, hangs up and puts the bollards back before scooting off with a surly backward glance. She has her territory marked out, although she’s careful not to offend by putting the bollards out again.

Her main business is her dress stall, housed below a roof of two large sun umbrellas of even greater vintage and dishevelment than the one that shades her flower display. Her stock is stored overnight in a large aluminium container (1.25×1.5 mtr) on wheels.

A small flower table is the first to be set up, a blue metal table unfolded and laid over with a clear plastic sheet and a selection of pre-prepared garlands spread on it, probably in anticipation of passing trade on their way to the nearby temple, five minutes-walk away.

Next she sets up three clothing rails, each just under two metres high by three long, the shade umbrellas slotted along the side of the storage container. Beside them is her display area, a frame on which are suspended skirts, dresses, blouses of various designs and hues: a modern print of paint slashes of purple and black over a white background paired with a black long-sleeve blouse; low-waisted V-neck dress with flouncy collar in pale cream, lightweight cotton (summer is a comin’), as tasteful and fashionable as her own ensemble. On a folding table placed over a bright red fire hydrant (which would probably get her a fine anywhere else in the world) is a display of accoutrement to set off her clothing. All the while she’s moving she keeps up a running conversation with the lady who makes crepes on a mobile stall three metres away.

Once her shop is set up our russet-haired lady passes the day stringing blossoms together; marigold, jasmine, rose, for the decoration seen everywhere from taxi-drivers’ mirrors to tiny shrines as a way of making merit with the Buddha. When a customer buys a loop she places it in a small white plastic bag and slips the money into a huge red multi-zip pouch that hangs around her waist. Nimble fingers, little finger keeked as if she were taking tea from a bone china cup, her life seems to be one of constant animation in a fume-filled main street.

As I watch, a lady with crinkly hair of exactly the same shade as the vendeuse, stops by, and from a black shoe box takes out a pair of extravagant pale gold shoes with two-inch platforms and seven inch stiletto heels, matching perfectly the pair she’s wearing. From a white plastic carrier bag she takes out a voluminous shiny pink handbag. Both are placed on the table, presumably on a profit sharing basis.

Our lady knows everyone, and a wai or a few words – often many words – are exchanged with passers-by. You get the sense that this spot, where the footpath is widest and she has plenty of space to lay out her commercial enterprises, has been hers for years, and woe betide anyone who tries to muscle in on her turf, or in this case, pavement.