tides in the affairs of men

Lunch with my cousin Emma in the Newbridge eatery known to scholars of the once great While I'm At It column, as the Chat and Chew.
The cafe cacaphones around us.
I am holding forth about various creative projects.
If you were sitting nearby bold readers, you might have heard something like this:
"...Vampires of Dublin into a film... book version of The Birds of Northernesse poem... James Bond song, very funny... Want to put Lady Windermere back on stage. Not Oscar Wilde's. Mine. I'm telling you Oscar Wilde didn't write this crap..."
Presently the cousin leaned forward and addressed me conspiratorially.
"Do you see that elder man and middle aged woman at the next table? No James don't turn round."
"How can I look if I don't turn round?"
"Shut up. Listen. She's his mistress. He doesn't work and she's given him money and the keys of her house. But she doesn't think he loves her. She's just asked for the keys back."
I favoured Emma with my famous Paddington Bear stare.
"You haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?" I asked her.
"Yes, yes," quoth the cousin. "Something about a Dracula song and a James Bond poem. You want to put them on stage."
The noble Heelers nodded bitterly.
"Close enough," sez I grimly.
And there our story ends.