Outside, cold and blowing, people outside looking grim and purposeful.
Two ladies come in and say, good heavens, better in here. They separate, one to gardening, one to poetry.
The lady in poetry stares down at a book for some time. She looks up and says:
‘He had such a sad face, Robert Browning.’ She looks at me. Stern and reproachful. I agree, and try to think of something to say, but I can’t.
Then her friend moves back to the door (she wants to find the toilets) and pulls the door handle off (which isn’t fixed properly yet), and screams:
‘I have broken your shop.’
The grim lady makes an annoyed face.
‘Don’t be so silly and dramatic’.
They both leave, subdued.
And I go and have a look at poor Robert Browning.