The front door is a little heavy. Some people struggle with it.
The woman struggling with the door yesterday, at that peaceful time of day, too late for lunch and too early - strictly speaking - for afternoon tea, announced herself first with her hair.
It was rather too long for her age, which showed itself in two-and-a-half inches of grey root beneath the faded ginger.
Despite the time of day, it was still frizzy and unkempt. Her hands kept themselves busy by tugging bits of it out of her eyes, with occasional success.
We decided, later, that her tracksuit was grey.
As she handed over her CV, she noticed the music for the first time, which spoiled the businesslike impression she had planned to make.
"Is this tha' Li'l Brahn Jug?"
Until that moment, the regular incumbent of Table One had (so far as anyone could tell) nothing more vital to consider than the scones that lay in pleasing symmetry upon the large bone china plate directly in front of him.
He was particular about scones. This was known.
He had let it be known.
He was particular about knives. He used two. One for cream, one for jam.
He had a special way of arranging them.
He was particular about his iPad, which, nineteen months after he bought it for himself as a late birthday present, lay in front of him, still pristine in its original white box.
The box had been correctly engineered for its protective task.
Usually, it was a matter for some alarm when Table One Boy considered his scones as carefully as this. Sometimes, scones have a frilly bit on the bottom, that makes them look a little bit like cheese scones.
This can be upsetting for people whose childhood has been blighted by a difficult cheese scone experience, and such was the cross that Table One Boy bore, without marked fortitude.
But today there was something more studied about his consideration of the scones.
He was concealing any outward sign that Tracksuit Woman's presence had impressed itself upon his consciousness, and he was concealing, without success, the effort that this deception was costing him.
Tension shows itself in different ways.
In his case, it showed in the taut skin behind his jawline and in the damp impressions his hands left on the table.
He measured the tone of his answer, when it came, with striking care.
"No. It's Glen... Miller."
Tracksuit Woman was visibly delighted by this contribution, and forgot all about the menial employment position for which, just a moment ago, she had confessed a passion, borne out of long professional experience.
"Awww! Is it Moonlight Sonata?"
The answer burst out of Table One Boy like a lonely night-time sob.
"It's MOONLIGHT SERENADE!"
Tracksuit Woman either did not notice, or pretended not to notice, that Table One Boy had buried his head in his hands, recklessly close to his untouched, still correctly arranged scones.
Whether he was actually sobbing or not, we were never able to agree.
She smiled beautifully, and for a moment she was that version of herself that she had never quite become.
"Not all us 40-year-olds like pop music, you know".
And started dancing, with her hips, until the song ended, really quite a long time later, and she was alone, still dancing, and still smiling.
ACG