Intersection Logs

I went to Chatsworth one time and walked into the Duchess of Devonshire. In, um, a very literal sense. I had a baby (not mine!) in a sling, and was addressing myself to her dazzling blue eyes, and completely not looking where I was going; and came round a corner and walked plum into this little old lady and did the apologetic grovelling thing, and she did the baby-cooing thing, and we were both very pleased with each other for being so utterly English, and then a troop of schoolgirls came round the corner and stood themselves in a neat line and dropped a neat curtsey and said "Good afternoon, your grace," and I looked again at the little old lady and realised that yes, indeed, this was Debo of the Mitford gels (which maybe you have to be utterly English to understand its import, but, well, this was the social history of a generation I was barging into...).