Do you think about things in the shower? (Things other than your personal hygiene, of course.) I always do, but I don’t know if I’m odd. Usually it’s a case of me continuing my thoughts on a subject I’ve been talking to Chris about over our cups of tea in bed (our main conference area, and the other one is the kitchen table).

In bed this morning we were discussing changed values, altered perceptions of popularity and the need for celebrity, and the lack of modesty which often accompanies the aforementioned topics; in short, we conjectured on the reasons why there seem to be so many self-important people around nowadays. We considered the effects of the media and social networking sites (much as we love them); governments and political correctness (much as we dislike them); and Brussels…(which dictates nearly everything in Europe, and which spreads beyond the Western world, and around the world though the media and social networking sites….).

I was still thinking about the now casual general acceptance of pomposity (in my childhood big-heads were derided) when a memory of Jean Simmons entered my head. Jean Simmons? Who is Jean Simmons (you may be too young to remember or maybe you are not a film buff). According to Chris, one of my old (ex) boyfriends, not my husband, Chris, (I always chose boyfriends called Chris or David – that way you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right, as I may have told you before!), anyway OLD Chris used to think that the famous actress, Jean Simmons, was the most beautiful woman who ever lived, and he should have known because he was a film buff! She starred opposite Kirk Douglas in Spartacus.

Now if you’re puzzled as to why I was thinking about Jean Simmons while I was in the shower, pondering on why so many people are full of themselves these days; well, the reason is that, although she was a great Hollywood star, and exquisitely beautiful, she happened also to be a very modest, warm and natural lady. How do I know? How could I possibly know?  Let me explain.

Some years ago, during the early or mid-nineties, I was walking down the Strand in dear old Dawlish and I saw a lady coming out of Boots chemist. She was in her sixties, quite smartly dressed in a black and white check coat and a black hat. I recognised her straight away, perhaps because I’m primarily a portrait artist and observant when it comes to faces, and the rest of Dawlish folk out on the Strand that day just passed her by, not realising that one of the most feted beauties in the world was in their midst. Being an Australian, and therefore not over mindful of our place (because we think we are as good as the next man or woman, whatever his or her status), I approached the lady and said…

“Excuse me, but you are Jean simmons, aren’t you?

She smiled modestly (and charmingly – she had such pretty eyes and a soft mouth).

“Not many people recognise me these days,” she said in a way that let me know she was flattered.

“Perhaps I have an advantage being a portrait artist,” I answered.

“Oh, what’s your name?” she asked with interest.

I told her and pointed my finger in the direction of my gallery on the corner in the distance.

“My old boyfriend thinks you were the most beautiful woman in the world – and I couldn’t argue with him, especially after seeing “Spartacus”, I added.

“Oh, it was such a long time ago,” she said slightly embarrassed.

But her eyes lit up and she smiled like a girl who has heard for the first time that she is beautiful.

“My brother lives in Shaldon,” she changed the subject, “and I’m thinking of buying a house here. Actually, I’m looking for him now. Are you walking my way?”

So we walked together and chatted, and I wondered if she might not get bored with the quiet life in Shaldon; and about ten minutes later I took my leave, wishing her well and thanking her for the little thrill it had been to meet her (we Aussies aren’t completely impervious to certain people).

“It was lovely to meet you, too, Sally. Good luck with your painting,” she said at last, remembering my name.

I must admit that it gave me a great deal of satisfaction that day, knowing that all the townsfolk who passed up and down the Strand, many waving a greeting to me as they passed, had no idea that the pretty older lady with whom I was talking was none other than Jean Simmons. Naturally, it wouldn’t have meant anything to either the very young or non-film buffs. Forgive me if I seem a little immodest in broadcasting this event – just put it down to modern technology… or the urge for celebrity… or a sign of the times…

And, if you’re wondering… no, she didn’t buy a property in Shaldon. I’m afraid she may have thought better of it after our conversation!