Because that's what even the most tangential encounter with anyone who can be deemed a celebrity - however remotely - is like. The room changes, somehow.
A first hand example. This morning I walked into my usual barbers for my usual weekly Turkish shave, and who was waiting there? A certain diminutive, fiery Scottish midfielder of a certain vintage, with a large manager / factotum / gofer / bodyman figure in attendance.
Now bearing in mind that this ex-footballer can be seen on television reasonably regularly, summarising matches, it was hardly a surprise that he was being fussed over (in a way that I should make clear was neither fawning or obsequious, because obviously I go to a place with great customer service; but even as a regular I could tell that the chaps had dialled it up just that one notch further than normal. That I had to wait an hour longer than usual I shall forgive.)
But what was unexpected was the ripples that were left after he'd left: a heightened sense of buzz, a general tremulousness, and a charming note in the visitors' book. Other evidence for this? My barber's normally calm hand slipped and nicked me ever so slightly. We looked at each other. And we both knew why.
Labels: reportage forcefield celebrity