In a local restaurant that seems to attract luminaries – of a sort – from days gone by. The most unpretentious (and cost-wise, incredibly modest) place one might care to frequent. Patrons representing an old-school set, pure dowager territory (I think I may have blogged about it once before – I forget?). Today she was there again, the prima ballerina from an earlier, some might say better, age. Now in her 80s. I only know her history because I once heard the proprietor describing her thus, in fairly quiet tones, to diners at a nearby table.
Today, I wasn’t paying much attention or indeed facing the right way, but Sheridan had eyes cast on the table behind me. An older-lady – glamourous and confident (and a serious socialite from times gone by, I later found out). Her companion (husband) the disgraced politician. He has served his time so that epithet probably oughtn’t to be used. It is, however, descriptive.