I had heard reports of a BBC TV news item, on location of her latest film, that she had been attacked, badly hurt and scarred.
Later that day, I was at an exhibition promoting Galicia in N.West Spain, and there she was beside me- not hurt at all, pretty as a picture. We got talking, relaxed, without shyness or the awkward distance of her celebrity, of my brief time in lovely Galicia, and of the year i'd spent in France in the early 80's when she first came to my attention and i couldn't help taking a liking (One Deadly Summer, Deadly Run). We went outside for a stroll, now early evening, a warm breeze, the first stars emerging, up narrow cobbled streets, battlements, glimpses of the sea, her knee-length skirt swishing gently, and talked now of false rumours, the dangers of celebrity, from stalker and stranger alike. We went into a pleasantly intimate small caf, sharing a sofa; i could tell she liked me, knew i was genuine, and the feeling was mutual. She was softer and kinder than i'd expected, no airs and graces. She gave me the lightest friendly + just slightly flirty little kiss; there was a rare connection between us.
And then i awoke, it was this grey January morning in Wales, and my dog Bryn was wanting me to let him out for a wee.
2 nights ago, straight from playing for Wales at Rugby and being sinbinned by the woman ref for questioning her integrity, i'd spent the evening in a foyer with Harry Secombe, Peter Sellers (a fine cartoon artist i thought, judging from his quick sketch of Harry, though the two were gooning a bit much for my liking), Herbert Lom and Rod Steiger (signing autographs for poor schmucks pitifully impressed by and eager for fame); the five of us waiting to go in to see the next Pink Panther film. Some Marilyn Monroe wannabe, bleach-blonde and dressed as the part, had seemed to expect me to buy her a drink, just on the strength of my nonchalant "hi Marilyn"- too forward, not my type.