Okay, so I'd sneaked off to bed, where I was swapping naughty emails with Things 1 and 2, when another friend sends me this extract from a book by Matt Dunn, in which two people are staying at a hotel in Brighton ...
"It's a beautiful evening, still quite warm, and we stroll along the seafront hand in hand, dodging the joggers and roller-skaters."
She said that that HAD to be me (one of the joggers) ... appearing in a book. Tah Daah. Famous at last.
It's like claiming you've appeared on telly coz you were in the crowd at a football match (not that there's much danger of being on telly down at The Seagulls).
I wonder if there could be any more pathetic examples of false fame? Probably not.