Across the aisle in the train to Bristol there sit a talkative lady in her seventies and two somewhat younger women. One of them is the old lady’s niece. They appear to have seen a show together someplace in London. Just before the train starts moving, a gentleman in his seventies also comes along the aisle and there is much merriment when he and the old lady recognize each other. He is impeccably dressed, except that he is wearing brown loafers and beige socks with a dark-blue suit. She invites him to sit at their table. “We live next door,” he explains to the younger women, “but we meet here completely by chance.” If I understood them correctly, they live in a small place close to Swindon. “Maybe this has been arranged by the fellow up there,” laughs the old lady and raises her eyes toward heavens. “No, no,” the old gentlemen protests, “he does not know me!” The old lady is taken aback by this comment in a jovial sort of way: “This is an amazing thing to say!” “No, no…,” protests the old gentleman again with a wry smile. As the two women across the table do not react in any way, the old lady turns toward me: “Is this not an amazing thing to say?” I nod in agreement and smile politely toward their table. The old gentleman does not even turn toward me, though.