Ah, what might have been.

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On a winter morning in around 1977, (a sweet orange morning) the train I was travelling in was somewhere near Vienna, gliding along like the gleaming streak of red metal it was, stretched out between two banks of snow, shiny in the early morning winter sun. A woman who introduced herself as Isabella to a man sitting near me stepped out of the washroom looking all fresh and fabulous and Italian in spite of having sat bolt upright all night in a seat in the crowded carriage. I didn’t come alive till half an hour later when the smell of coffee carried along on a blast of icy air washed over my face as I dragged myself through Vienna station trying to keep my eye on the tall, elegant Sophia Loren lookalike. Isabella strode ahead, her small bag following on behind her on its tiny wheels like a lap dog on a leash. I struggled to keep up with her and she was soon lost in the crowd of busy people, so I just got on with my life.