No really, what is my problem? They're only human. Before they were famous, they weren't famous. I shouldn't be so inwardly giddy just because I've seen their face on a screen.
|Seconds earlier, I talked gibberish.|
When I randomly bump into famous faces in the wild, as it were, I have even less time to prepare. Over the years - and in Euston Station alone - I've walked past Gary Lineker (tiny), Ann Widdecombe (tinier) and Peter Crouch (not tiny at all.) By the time I realise it's them, it's too late. I would have to turn around and run back, catching them up. And then what? Cooo-eee, Gary! I really liked you in Italia '90. I don't think so. I'd struggle to say anything to Peter Crouch as I don't know much about him beyond footballer, and as for Ann Widdecombe? Well. I'm not so giddy about that one. Even with all my courage summoned, I'd probably be happy to leave her be, and give the selfies a swerve.
|Full of properly good food. Honest.|
|Lovely Nigel and his lovely writing. |
This book demands fairy lights.
|Top tip: Have a mini moment of objectification|
but then celebrate male achievements
to counteract the reductive thought.
What is more likely is that a) they won't be there, or if they are then b) I will feel giddy inside, smile politely, and silently objectify Andrew Scott a teensy bit, before resigning myself to the fact that PWB will probably never be my best mate or writing mentor. I am not quite in the same place as the woman next to me in the theatre. Just twentyish years to go until I can say that I am sixty and I have stopped caring what people think. And then, brace yourselves, celebs. I'll be all over you.
Have a lovely week, folks.
*It wasn't a varied diet. Beans, cheese, bread, and crisps seemed to cover most of first year.