Time has not lessened my disconcertment when a woman sits down opposite in the morning train and starts making her face. Not a yard between us, she lifts the little mirror from her bag and gets to work. There’s something she wipes on her cheek, a brush does cleaning or colouring (how would I know, who turn to watch streets go by?), eyebrows need attention, and there’s the artistry of the lips. Unselfconscious, it’s a regular procedure for her. Job done, she drops the mirror back into the depths, then turns to the same landscape as mine, the same November.