On the way back to London I meet a glamorous older woman on the train who tells me about her portfolio of men, something, she suggests that all of us modern divorcees need. She asks me if it's likely that I will ever move to Worcester. I say that though full of delights in the shape of Worcester man, I thought it unlikely - adding that although I am sure the place has a lot to recommend it, apart from trees, I haven't really seen that much of the city.
'There are some lovely restaurants,' she claims.
'Really?' I'm surprised. I usually turn into Nigella while I'm there and cook.
'Yes. really. How long have you been seeing this man, then? Notice the singular. I feel I'm letting the side down not having spread my assets further. Worcester, frankly, is quite far enough.
'Since May.'
'Hmm.' She smiles.
I have been to every supermarket between Great Malvern and Cheltenham, though, I don't add.
Meanwhile there's a curious beeping sound coming from behind me and an electronic voice that seems to be saying 'smelly raining flowers' like a child reading the speaking clock. 'smel-lee rain-ing flaw-ers'. I glance around but I can't see where the sound is coming from. A small Asian woman seems to be playing a computer game. It must be her. How odd, I think, and turn my attention back to Anne (my new best friend) who is offering to show me round next time I'm there if I have time between supermarket visits and country walks. The beeping sound continues. Anne waves goodbye at Honeybourne which I feel sure is full of Stepford Wives turning out gourmet meals for their lovers in strapless dresses and unsuitable underwear (ring ring, pot, this is the kettle calling - are you interested in some property in Honeybourne?)
Spee-nach. Says the voice.
What?
Spee-nach. It repeats.
Spinach? What kind of game is she playing? I risk another over the shoulder squint and not only is she playing with a hand-held device but she's talking to herself and ticking something off from a list with her little pointer.
She mumbles. 'Spinach.'
Spee-nach.
'Spinach.' she repeats.
She taps furiously.
Mul-tee by! says the voice with a curious upswing at the end of the last syllable. The woman repeats it, just as surprised.
'Mul-tee by!' She seems delighted.
Mu-ller Light, the voice announces.
And then finally the penny, or the Sainsbury's multi-buy bargain drops. The woman is tapping her shopping list from the supermarket into some sort of translation program and using it to teach herself English. I don't know quite what the dictionary makes of Muller Lite (rice, yoghurt, crunch corners?) but at least the mystery of the disembodied voice is solved.
The mystery of the smelly raining flowers though deepens...
I think it must be self-raising flour.
Ho hum.
It is a very long train journey.
That keeps me occupied all the way to Didcot.
