So I head to the shopping street this morning to, well, shop. It’s something I sometimes do, you know, buy groceries 'n stuff. Nothing terribly unusual, really. Just as I’m preparing myself mentally to inspect some fish I notice a woman staring at me. Late fourties maybe. Conservative looks. She seems to recognise me, which takes my mind off the swordfish and towards the more pressing question: “do I know this woman?” Try as I might to recall her, I can’t, and she’s now walking towards me.
“My god! Is it you?” She asks.
To which I respond:
?
This was a mistake as it got her thinking I didn’t speak the language. She starts rummaging through her purse and produces a magazine. Things start to slowly fall into place as I recognise the magazine in question. You see, a few months back, I was interviewed by a journalist for what I thought was an obscure publication.
“OMG! It is you!” She said, comparing my picture with the real thing.
Then followed a slightly surreal conversation wherein she expressed her tremendous joy at meeting me “at last.” This was rather disconcerting considering that she didn’t appear to understand exactly what I do, or even why I had been interviewed in the first place. What was even more disconcerting was that she had bookmarked the article. And was carrying a two month old magazine in her purse. It’s almost as though she’d been stalking me.
So that’s what it feels like to be famous, I was left thinking.
Tonight, I’m going to make sure to close the curtains before I go to bed. Wouldn’t want to find my picture in next week’s Friday. Next thing you know, my mom stops calling me and finds out what I’m up to by reading Hola.
