He had spent hours in doctors’ waiting rooms absorbing the rich tapestry of life amongst poor and sad patients. He would sit unnoticed in a corner watching, listening, scribbling.
She was a cub reporter on the lowest pay scale, the courts her classroom, unable to afford private medicine.
He is now delivering a talk on his latest best-seller bodice-ripper. He is very rich.
She now edits a respected feminist magazine. She is here to challenge him, destroy him.
From the stage he sees her, casts his mind back, remembers. He speaks into the microphone, “Your varicose veins sorted now, Martha?”