This is the second night I've walked home past the restaurants that line Chiswick High Road and unthinkingly ended up studying the body language of some of the diners.

Two nights ago, I noticed one couple, and saw a fatal sign, the woman discontentedly fiddling with her necklace, twisting this way and that. No words need tell the state of that relationship; they will not sitting opposite each other in that restaurant, or any other this time next year.

Tonight, I glimpsed a woman, caught between a pucker and a grimace, painting her lips. For some reason, it struck me as particularly horrible. I can't explain why. It just did.