Ashbourne Ladies.

My visit to the medical practice nurse this morning was unexpectedly pleasant. Charlotte – for such was her name – was delightfully personable and fully concurred with my view that life is not about following doctors’ orders, but about respecting the professional’s opinion and then making your own balanced decisions based on your own nature and needs. It was also noteworthy that I’ve never had a needle stuck into my arm more painlessly than she did it.

The favour I received from the woman in the coffee shop was quite different. She asked me whether I could manage a medium Americano instead of the small one I’d paid for. ‘I suppose so,’ I replied, ever the one to remain quietly uncommitted when faced with a difficult decision. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Only I just prepared one by mistake and it would be a shame to waste it. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing today.’ It appears that one person’s confusion can be another’s good fortune, and so I was duly grateful and managed perfectly well.

Ah, but then came the big one. I encountered the Lady B accompanied by her dear mama in Ashbourne’s more select supermarket. I say ‘encountered’ but they were entirely unaware of my presence. That’s how it should be, of course, and it gave me the opportunity to stand outside the window and study what little I could see of the lady’s countenance – which I could only view in profile – searching for telling signs of change. I stood there studying for quite some time, separated by nothing more than a pane of glass and yet remaining, as ever, one too many mornings and a thousand miles behind. Eventually I grew concerned that she might notice and become discomfited, and so I hurried away as any gentleman resigned to the requirements of propriety and good sense would.