Bridget

A man is playing Elvis Presley Songs as I enjoy the sunshine by the river.  A few metres away, underneath the bright blue sky, two middle-aged women are jiving.

As I get up to leave I approach to tell them how much I appreciated their dance.  One has vibrantly dark hair and a tailored jacket.  The other's hair is slightly disheveled and she has on a soft jumper.  They tell me that they were brought up nearby.  They are sisters.

Visiting from Paris, the dark-haired sister explains that they have come on a day-trip to visit the place where the other sister (with the soft jumper) met her husband forty-five years ago.  A white-haired man with a walking stick ambles over.  'Have you told him why we're here?' he asks.  They say that it is reminiscent except that, then, there was a mist.

I take the opportunity to ask my question.  'Oh, you're going to love mine', says the dark-haired sister.  'You're going to love hers', repeats the other.  'What's that film?' says the first.  'The Romance.  With that actor'.  I have  to admit that I am none-the-wiser.  'English', she says.  'All the girls swoon over him'.  I'm still finding it hard to guess.  'Got caught with his pants down'.  'Hugh Grant?' I suggest.  I am right.  She continues, 'The girl he's with in that film'.  The white-haired gentleman pipes up.  'Andie MacDowell', is his idea.  'No.  She's got body issues', she says indicating size.  I suggest the famous diarist of the late 1990s.  'That's it', she says.  we are all pleased.

'Her first name's Mary', says the other sister with the soft jumper.  'So in Paris they call her Marie-Brigitte'.

We talk of Paris, the markets and the cobbled street on which I used to live but I need to get going and thank them for their help.  'No.  Thank you for coming over', the visiting sister replies.