In a petrol filling station on Sunday with Olivia. Her sitting in the car, me coming out of the shop after paying. Man in oily dungarees coming towards me stops: "Your daughter," he drawls, deepest Suffolk accent, indicating the car with a nod of the head, "she's the spittin' image of tha young 'oman in Downton Abbey." Do you mean Lady Mary? I ask. He nods, appreciatively. "Tha's the one," he says. You're not the first person to comment on a likeness, I tell him, and he moves on with a smile of satisfaction and a sigh of, what, longing?
I tell Olivia. "I saw him staring at me. Just because I'm pale, have dark hair and a pointed nose doesn't make me look like Lady Mary," she complains. "She's a horrible woman, mean and tight-faced. I hope I don't really look like her."
I don't think there's any resemblance. Lady Mary never tidies my larder. Edna O'Brien now maybe. She's pretty handy around the house.
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