I was going to write aboutLucy Walter today.At a recentart viewing in Picton Castlesomeone enquiredif I was Lucy Walter. 'No, I'm not',I replied. (Unlike George Bush Junior, asked about the cancerous lesion removedfrom his face, I did not say, 'Thank you for asking').I also refrained from saying, 'Actually, no'.

I've got this niggleabout people who insert 'Actually' before giving anegative answer.I know why they do it, actually.

For instance, in answer to, 'Were you invited to the Royal wedding? or 'Didyour horse win the Derby yesterday?' they'll say, 'Actually, no',as though 'actually' impartsa dignity that saves them from looking likelosers.

So, no, I'm not Lucy Walter butwe dohave a fewthings in common. We were both married at sixteen and my husband is vaguely related to her and to Diana, Princess of Wales.

(He didn't know the last two factsuntil I unearthed them, butstill remembersour wedding anniversary, asking me to buy my own presents because he's run out of ideas- it is fifty one years, after all).

l'll talk about the 'bold, brown, beautiful' Lucy later in the weekandI can talk, because I've written a novel about her but, for now, I'll leave aside one of the the world's most alluring Welsh mistresses andcome toMum and Menna, instead.

Well, it was last Saturday afternoon. They'd both had their hair blow dried and wore their new outfits from Max Evans, Carmarthen. Bowls of chips, a plate of chicken Mayo sandwiches (no salad), tea and raisin muffins in the Ivy Bush and they were off tovisit a friend who lived ona farm two miles away. Menna, seventy five wasat the wheel ofherRenault Clio, Mum, eight eight,in her Calvin Klein sunglasses sitting by her.

They had gifts ofchocolates, a magazine and flowers.Kisses allroundand then they satin the garden. Bighugsand then it was time to go.It had been lovely. Theywere told not to leave it so long before calling again.

Driving down the narrow country laneon the way back to the mainroad, awhite van zoomed up behind them, tooting. Menna pulled into the next layby, so did the van. Menna's throat tightened. Mumthought of the Letterston maniac who shot at random. (He wasjailed for life last week).Mum usedthe side window to take down the van number. They sat there, uneasily, for a couple of minutes.

Menna pulled out again, so did the van. They tookthe Roman road back to Carmarthen,in an attempt to shake him off, but he followed. Menna's stomach lurched (newly widowed and recovering from an operation, she felt fragile) but there was only one thing for it. Shedrove straight to the local police station and gave the full details.They're investigating and I'll let you know.

PS Mum loves her mobile but did not want to over re-act. I've told them to never pull in again.