I was hanging out in the cafe at the Arts Picturehouse with my kid and the barista pointed at my necklace. Is that a real bug?!
-Yes!
He shuddered, then raised his eyes to my face. Oh, are you the one who was in having photographs done?
Sigh. I’ve avoided the place for six months to erase the traces of that horrid day! Yeah….
-Are you famous?
-I hope not.
-What was it for?
-A newspaper.
-Which one?
-The Guardian.
He reared back in surprise. Really? What was the article about?!?
Here I break with tradition and a lifetime of reticence, not to mention localized anxiety, and told the truth: I wrote a book and the article was about….erm… me!
He stood there, glass in hand, blinking in astonishment. Really? What is it called?
The youth in question was, at this point, over-stimulated – to say the least.
Ooh, he said creepy!
I replied Indeed! Cheers! then scurried back to my seat.
See how much progress I’ve made? Though if I can’t go anywhere without being recognized I might need to move to a new country.