I was very down at the time; stuck in a dark place. What turned me around was that she noticed me, a total stranger, when I thought I was invisible; she saw through my misery to the person I wanted to be; she told me in a few kind, well-chosen words how to be the person I could be.

I want her to see my transformation.

Transformation!

What a word.

It’s the best word in the English language.

She made me realise that we’re not fixed, rooted firmly in our inadequacies, but that we can change who we are whenever we choose; we can pick up the kaleidoscope, shake it and transform ourselves again and again. We can choose the way we face the world. We can choose the way the world sees us.

I’m smiling; I can’t help it. I wish I’d been the one who’d dressed her all up in black and white with those bright red lips.

As she gets closer she, in turn, is studying my outfit with equally blatant curiosity, from my shoes to my confidence-boosting slightly masculine Prince of Wales check jacket with shoulder pads and the nipped-in waist.

I lower my white sunglasses and my eyes meet hers.

She briefly raises one fine eyebrow and smiles at me approvingly.

I love that smile. It makes my day.

‘Darling, you startled me, you know!’ she says warmly. Dahlink, you stertled me! … Her accent is German or Austrian, strong and precise. ‘That suit! So chic! Suddenly, it’s 1949 again – I thought I was dead all of a sudden, bof! God knows, I’ve practised, but here?’ A train thunders over the bridge and she looks around, then winces and covers her ears at the trailing noise until it fades.

She folds her arms and looks at me again intently from head to foot, then works her way up once more – shoes, knees, skirt, jacket – and she nods her approval. ‘Perfect.’ She adds in a whisper from behind her slender hand, ‘Except for that suitcase, of course.’

This time around, she’s not looking at me with gentle compassion but with humour.

I look at my scruffy case and laugh. ‘Grim, isn’t it? But it’s practical.’

‘Oh, prektikel! Well then!’

Does she remember me? If she doesn’t, I’ll take that as a compliment because it’s a sign of how much I’ve changed.

Suddenly, her expression changes to one of alarm.

‘Oh! My bus is coming!’ she says. ‘Excuse me! Goodbye!’

The number twenty-four is coming up under the bridge and she spins around and hurries in her heels towards the bus stop, pearls jingling, her handbag swinging from the crook of her elbow. Waving at the driver, she reaches in her bag for her travel card. In her rush, she’s dropping her money. Coins are rolling over the pavement, spinning in all directions.