"What's your name?" asks Rosalind. We have established that she is coveting my pink flowered wellies so it is undoubtedly time for introductions.
"Corinne" I reply.
"That's a lovely name" she says. I beam because that is the correct response. Then -
"Like the character in the play!"
I cannot deny it, the aged Shepherd and myself do have something in common.
"Yes - but the female version" I add with necessary haste lest I lose some letters in the process.
"Like Corinne Bailey Rae" says a voice to my right. I know it is Oxonian before I look round. Bailey Rae. A term of endearment he had called it as I'd blasted him with my alcohol fuelled discontent. So caught up was it that the next time someone called me it, across an empty theatre months later, it sent me spinning backwards.
"Who is" Oxonian continues "ironically, also from Leeds".
There's a pause. I suspect I know what is coming next.
"Are you sure you're not related?"