I was waiting in the old TT outside the local Pizza Express the other night, while Elton popped in to get his usual takeaway order of a Quattro Formaggi with double extra cheese, when a total stranger opened the passenger door and got in.
"Hello," I said in a pleasant tone, assuming that he had recognised me from the UK Living tribute the other night, and perhaps wanted my autograph.
"Station mate," he grunted, wafting the unmistakable stench of stale beer all over the Alcantara leather.
"I'm sorry, I'm not a cab," I retorted.
"Well, you shouldn't be parked on a bloody taxi rank then, should you?" he burped, rather too grumpily for my liking.
With that he got out and slammed the door so hard I thought the TT was going to roll over, just as I was suggesting that perhaps he shouldn't be getting so pie-eyed at half past eight in the evening that he couldn't tell the difference between a local millionaire, out and about on celebrity business, and a common or garden, taxi-driving herbert.