This month I … had an embarrassing encounter in a French bistro in Melbourne. In my defence, the light was dim. Or perhaps, as I’ve suspected for some time, my cheap, crap, 3.5 spectacles no longer cut the mustard, French or otherwise.
I was dining with my daughter Bonnie, enjoying a repast of green beans and almonds roasted in butter, creamy potato gratin and rich coq au vin. J’adore any food that is heart attack-inducing!
We chatted gaily, as one does in a French restaurant, when suddenly I noticed a man sitting at the bar, intently looking at moi. Next thing, he stood up and started sidling towards our table. “Don’t be alarmed,” I said to Bonnie, who was sitting with her back to the action, “but there’s an adoring…