Bloody odd name, thought Samantha, pulling up outside Dame Nancy's house. Bloody odd place too. Her gaze dwelt with great satisfaction on the shabby Georgian building less than half the size and definitely less than a third of the value of The Bottoms. A mud-spattered Peugeot lurked at the side of the house. Samantha lost no time in parking the gleaming Jaguar right next to it. So far, so satisfactory. Samantha was confident that the air of galloping decay about Dame Nancy's house accurately reflected the dilapidated state of its owner. The only puzzle was the dame bit. Possibly, Samantha thought, the reward for a lifetime's dedication to Meals on Wheels or for embroidering a record number of church kneelers for the diocese. In which case, persuading her to relinquish the reins of thespian power would be like taking candy from a baby. She would probably never have met a proper actress before. Let alone a celebrity. The days of the Eight Mile Bottom Amateur Dramatic Society were numbered.
