Dear Mum,
A celebrity sighting is always an
event and marks the week with a notable incident.
It’s not like bumping into a
friend you haven’t seen for a while. This is the kind of experience where, a
few days later, you offer the interjection, “That reminds me, guess who I saw
the other day...?”
And it’s even more exciting than
a voucher or discount. This is the kind of event which warrants a quick text to
those who’ll appreciate a “Get to Boots! They’re doing £5 off No. 7!” text.
A celebrity sighting is the type
of experience that warrants an immediate text of block capitals, concluding
with half a dozen exclamation marks, and sent to pretty much everyone in your
phonebook.
Furthermore, some celebrities are
instantly recognisable – I saw Jo Brand a few months back and immediately said
to myself, “OMG! JO BRAND!!!!” Which, you’ll remember, is just the message that
I texted you with.
Then there are those sightings
that are rather more elusive. As I crossed a road in Covent Garden last week, I
passed a chap on his phone.
‘God, where do I know you from?’
I thought as I paced the London street, ‘Who is our mutual friend? I feel like
we met somewhere very stressful, and I was crying...’
The minute he threw his gaze at
the 5”2” brunette, gawping in his direction with a puzzled and inspecting expression,
I remembered. ‘That’s the dude from Birdsong!!”
A very exciting celebrity spot
was the CIA guy from Homeland – David Harewood.
I was meeting a friend for
afternoon tea and Mr Harewood was standing outside the vicinity opposite our
destination. He was reading out his phone number to the person on the other end
of the phone which, as my friend reminded me several times afterwards, I should’ve
taken note of.
Once more I squinted and puzzled
and mulled over this sense of familiarity. Upon realising it was the CIA guy,
you received the “I JUST SAW THE DUDE FROM THE CIA IN HOMELAND OUTSIDE THE
AFTERNOON TEA PLACE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” text.
The friend I was meeting replied
with “What? In the place where we’re going to have tea??!”
This completely ruined the sighting – watching him sup on Early Grey tea, a vanilla macaroon held between forefinger and thumb, a few tables away would be far more exciting than passing him on the street, completely unaware of my existence.
This made me realise that it’s
far more impressive and boosts kudos if you have a pucker anecdote. Like if I’d
stepped out onto the road before I was meant to, and the Birdsong guy saved me
from an oncoming taxi.
Or if David Harewood had been at
the afternoon tea place and asked if he could trouble us by finishing the
finger sandwiches we’d abandoned on our cakestand, only he’d had a long day and
was craving some refreshing cucumber sandwiches.
I did have such an experience on the
train into work this week.
Being a grumpy commuter, I cannot
bear people reading over my shoulder. Get your own paper.
Sitting by the window on this
particular day, I was conscious of the lady sitting next to leaning over my
shoulder, like an unprepared and inexperienced commuter without reading material
to distract one’s self from the horrors of the daily commute.
Flicking through the Metro, my
neighbour casting her eye over the day’s top news, I couldn’t concentrate.
I folded up my paper and turned
to the lady over my shoulder and asked, “Would you...?” as if to say “Would you
like my paper, seeing as you’ve already attempted to read half of it over my
shoulder?”
She took it from me hesitantly and
began to gather up her things.
“No, no!” I said, realising my
rude and incomplete question was pretty ambiguous. “No, I meant did you want to
read my paper?”
“Oh I thought you were getting
off,” she said, settling back down in her seat.
“No, you’re alright until we’re
in London.”
“Well, thank you. I’ll just put
it there,” and she placed the paper in front of us, tapping it assuredly,
humouring the strange girl sitting next to her who was determined for her to
read the Metro.
Apart from being embarrassed for
my agitated and unclear “Would you?” question, I felt this woman was very VERY
familiar.
It suddenly dawned on me that
this woman was Simon’s Mum in The Inbetweeners.
Nah, can’t be. But she continued
to look over my shoulder. I soon realised she had a script on her lap and was clearly
testing herself on her lines rather than having
literature-envy as she pursued the
texts I held in my hands.
Embarrassing, yes, but this was a
proper celebrity encounter, and I’ve added it to my repertoire.
If Robin Weaver is reading this blog, I’d also
like to apologise for my rude behaviour. Please do sit next to me again – I won’t
force the Metro on you, I shall simply place it on the table in front of us in
case you want to read it.
But
if anyone reads the paper over my shoulder, celebrity or not... be afraid. Be
very afraid...
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