She was the kind of woman who always knew which side her mandolin was buttered and she had a complete set of bespoke bicycle clips for all formal occasions. Still, those of us who knew her, and some of us had known her several times, always knew she was destined for greatness, especially on that memorable night the local cinema caught fire and we had to make our own entertainment as the firemen struggled to get the blaze under control.
She would, we all believed, eventually find - at least - a more profitable position in the intimate entertainment industry than up against the supermarket back wall in the flickering light of a cinema-turned-inferno.
With the money we had otherwise earmarked for interval choc-ices grasped in her hand and no underwear to her name, she left our small town later that very night.
For weeks afterwards, we all wondered what became of her, especially as the cinema had yet to reopen and we all had several choc-ices worth of possibilities we would have liked to explore with her.
However, we were not too surprised, a few months later, to find some of her more recognisable features displayed in a picture expose of a mere handful of politicians from the capital. All accused of doing to her what they had already so demonstrably done to the country, with the only appreciable difference in the fact that this time it was the politicians paying for their mistakes, not us.
Of course, a woman falling into such disgrace with so many formerly well- if-not-quite-respected-then-tolerated gentlemen had only one option left open to her. So, only a few months later we were again not really surprised on opening our tabloids to discover she had been given a prime-time chat show of her own.
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