Or would this make you happy?
A stranger approaches, asks our Lady-in-Waiting the way to a small hidden garden that opens only one day of the year - this day, this year - a garden few know about, fewer care about, and even less visit.
I will show you, our woman says, taken by the frank smile of the stranger, and her rather fabulous black wool coat which bears a strong resemblance to that worn by Lana Turner in a movie she saw long ago.
She has style, this stranger.
In the small walled garden they talk to each other, discover a passion for Roma tomatoes, Russian sunflowers and second hand-clothes. They each relate stories that could be spun upon the back of another's second skin.
They call the wearing of anothers clothes a resurrection, of sorts.
Something beaded and heavy, or cut on the bias, a crisp printed cotton cinched at the waist, bearing the label "House of Carroli", a green 1930's bakelite handbag in the shape of a large green apple.
They will probably become friends.
Who knows what might happen then?
Not me, not you.
A link has been made, a connection.
Let's leave it at that, shall we?
(One thing is for sure. Nothing will ever be the same.)
And that, dear scrollers, is surely the definition of a story.
So what the hell is all that complaining about?