"We could have our very own Florence Foster Jenkins (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Florence_Foster_Jenkins),*" Una mused. "Bit after your time, that one: an enormously wealthy lady with a legendarily abominable singing voice and an endless amount of nerve. Sort of admirable in a way; she didn't care what anyone thought of her and sang at Carnegie Hall in New York a month before she died."

She pushed open the door to the Blue Ribbon Bakery and, without thinking, held it for Kitty. Which, she realised belatedly, ought to have been the other way around, if they were really acting in their proper roles. Oops.

*((The sound sample has to be heard to be believed.))