Friday, 29 March 2013


I met Sandra Bullock the other night.

It was in a dream (of course), but it was she nonetheless.

It was mid afternoon on the Underground, a sparcely populated carriage. I forget which line. She was sat alone, just sitting, with shades on to mask identity. I was curious, so sat next to her. After a short time I enquired if she knew the time. The turn of head, catching eyes, tone of voice confirmed my suspicions that is was indeed her. After a minute or two I mentioned, sotto voce, that I was a big fan of her work. She allowed me to make conversation, and we chatted for a while.

I had little else to do during the afternoon before a train home, so I silently elected to get off at her stop. We continued to talk, how she found England to be, weather, books, history. I asked if she had time for a coffee, which she needed some persuading to accept. I said I would ensure she got to her appointment in some offices not too far away.

We had just over half an hour.

I found a caff on a back street, with few customers. We shared a large slice of lemon drizzle cake over a latte and pot of tea, and continued to talk about life, love, hopes and failures. It was all very easy and pleasant, no pretensions and no awe.

Leaving the caff, I walked her, as promised, to the offices. Just as we parted company I gave her a copy of my CD remarking "I'm not a doctor, but I think you ought to take one of these." Our warm valedictions included no talk of meeting again, or even being in touch.

I wonder if I'll see her again.

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