Normally I'd have been delighted.
Normally, I'd have got right out of my car and stood and chatted for a while with such lovely people.
Normally I'd compare notes on the very best french fries (chips) this side of the ones I get in Dublin in Powerscourt (fried in duck fat), and available only on the side of the road off a wagon as one heads towards the TCH* where we were all stopped.
"We've been to both your shows!" They say, "And when and where is the third one happening? We want to book tickets for that too!!"
Through the car window I shake hands with all four of them. Keeping my left arm pinned across my chest. Praying they're going to move along, there's nothing to see, nothing peculiar at all about my dog licking my lovely linen jacket, just one of her tricks. She does it all the time. Cute, ha?
I'm breaking out in a sweat as they finally wave goodbye, full of compliments and admiration for the licky dog.
What I've desperately tried to hide is my catastrophic spillage of one small pot of gravy all over my white, yes white, jacket and down my pants with my beloved Ansa frantically trying to clean me up.
I mean, public image, papparazzi, 'n all that. One has to look one's best for one's fans. Right, Angelina?
*TransCanadaHighway
