There are all sorts of advantages to not living in London. You can not see a member of the cast of EastEnders for weeks, maybe whole months at a time. You don't, when you go to Gap, as I did yesterday, and can't be bothered to queue for the changing room and are trying on a T-shirt over your T-shirt and your hair's gone all weird and static, look up, see someone you know and say 'Hi!' and then realise it's Paul Whitehouse. Who you obviously don't know. But who now believes you're his psycho stalker.It sums up what I would call "a Tom Paulin moment", except as Cloud points out with Tom Paulin it is obviously much less embarrassing as having been a lecturer Paulin wouldn't know if you weren't perhaps one of his long-forgotten students from distant years past.
Didn't stop me feeling a right twonk when I once nearly greeted the aforementioned Paulin when crossing the road in Oxford. Guy is calmly walking his kids across the road towards me, with me frantically thinking "I know that man! I should say hello! I can't remember his name or why I know him!" So I grin inanely and start to gesture a passing wave and open mouth for hello when I realise who he is: I'd been watching Newsnight Review the previous evening.
Zero de conduite.