A Reverie Shattered

Every so often I see people in London who could have stepped straight out of the historical paintings on show here. Such as the woman in her mid-sixties who is sitting across from me, here in the Tate Britain cafe. Her long brown hair frames a long pale Stuart-era face and her heavy-lidded eyes could have come from any of the paintings by the great Peter Lely, upstairs.

And then my reverie is broken by the officious, bustling, tiny weasel of a cafe manager, who keeps skittering around people's tables like a bumblebee, performing tasks which are completely unnecessary. I know this kind of manager well - the sort who can't help meddling into the well-functioning ship his staff have created, and in the process steering it onto the rocks. I couldn't help smiling when he grabbed a woman's teapot, thinking it was empty, sloshing a little scalding tea on his hand.

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