People smiled at each other in the lengthy queue for an early cuppa at the Cecil Sharpe House café. Earthy wooden tables decorated a sparse room warmed by the buzz of conversation and the bang-bang of the barista’s coffee work.
“Is that the door to sorrow or are my eyes deceiving me?” I turned to look at the owner’s voice and noticed him glancing towards a handwritten sign above a door not too far away. I followed his gaze and burst out laughing. “Um, I don’t think so! But having said that I can’t work it out either – is it ‘Storrou’”?
“Time for an eye test I think” came the reply. “Anyway whatever it is, I don’t want to go there.” Between more joking and laughter, we discussed the virtues of our morning venue and the talk we were about to attend there. “I’ve heard Ruby speak before in Ross on Wye. She was good” he said. 
“Don’t look in that mirror!” I said to T as he wandered back from the Gents, “It’s a ‘fat’ mirror, and Lord knows I don’t need to add any extra pounds to the ones already gained over the last week.”
There was a time, not so long ago, when the word that a new restaurant in town had opened, had you hot footing it down there to steal the ashtray and collect the matches while dining on all the alcohol you could possibly manage and shooting the calorie counter up to eleven. The naughtier and more generously appointed the dish the better.
I laid the loaf of sourdough bread down on the floor, alongside my faux fur and handbag. “Jeez, it’s hot in here” I said to my Goldie Hawn Lookalike (GHL) of a neighbour. A glass of Walter’s Royal Riesling Sekt Brut in hand I spied the canapés on offer. Geraldine – the generous owner of 
I woke surrounded by Tiger print. Red and pink Tiger print. Had it all been a dream? A glance at the receipt and an inspection of photos on my phone said otherwise.
I tweeted H: ’Unfortunately it’s sold, so I can’t get it for you.’
From Toulouse to Gaillic: Graffiti decorated station buildings, small maintenance boxes and animal sheds strewn in the fields we slowly pass, stamped with the mark of ‘I was here’ in street art language.
Just in the door, my Skype rang. It was Fifi from Ibiza. “Everyone’s gone home” she said, “The whole family. The temperature’s dropped and the campsite’s finally calming down.”
“It’s gives you a break, that’s the most important thing” Kamila told me as she explained the Jean d’Estrées Vitamin C Facial. “And, that’s what we’re about too, we like people to come here – men, women, couples, groups of friends, basically everyone can be together and get everything done. We’re like a one stop shop for relaxation through treatments.”
The news had reported ridiculously long queues around each city venue of Kanye West’s global weekend only fashion pop-up on Friday. Around-the-block lines had already resulted in a sell out of his sand/gold colour T-shirts, sweatshirts and hats by Saturday morning in London.
Conversations with Strangers 