I don’t think I’d like that. Celebrity status has never really appealed to me because I’m a very private person who just wants to be left alone with my horrible imaginings (which are worse than present fears according to one notable mass murderer. It’s why I don’t mind going to bed on a diet of Japanese horror films.) Fame might bring fortune in its wake, but at what price? I’ll take privacy over fortune any day.
Then again, I suppose a fortune might buy me some real privacy. And maybe I could get some crooked psychiatrist to give me a Certificate of Madness, so that when people approach me in the street I could say: ‘You really shouldn’t talk to me, you know. I’m completely mad and here’s the proof.’
Ah, but then my interlocutor might run away and tell his or her friends that they’ve just met this really weird bloke. And if they subsequently pass me in the street they might giggle and point and throw things at me.
But then a beautiful lady of grace, substance and easy virtue who doesn’t know me from Adam might ask ‘Oh my poor, dear chap, why are those horrible schoolgirls throwing things at you?’ And I’d say ‘Because they think I’m mad, but I’m not really.’ ‘Oh dear, oh dear, that’s really too bad,’ the beautiful lady of grace, substance and easy virtue would reply. ‘Do allow me to take you for a cup of coffee. You can tell me all about it and I’m sure you’ll feel a lot better. Do you like etchings, by the way?’
OK, so the pros and cons are swinging this way and that. Let’s wait and see what happens.