I'm a celebrity. I mean, I must be if the way people treat me is an indication of who I am. A decade in psychotherapy hasn't really clarified a sense of self, so I rely on others to help.
Much like that urban legend of the guy who marches up to the air hostess and arrogantly asks "Don't you know who I am?" and she replies "I'll get the passenger manifest to check", I judge my own position by those around me. Recently, people seem agog.
Anton who once served me at the Radisson announced to the change room at the Point gym that I was Cape Town 's premier food critic before giving me the heads up about the new spot on top of the ABSA building called Antique which, is reportedly run by cute Chris Barnard and chaps from Paranga. Later that evening, I met uber-actor's agent Emma Ress at Cruz who introduced me to her friends: two recent émigrés and Grant Isaacs, the former Squash champ whose grandfather's chemist building in Camps Bay was recently sold for mega millions. I was very grateful to Emma for the opportunity to chat as I didn't know anyone else there. Aside from a chap who said “hi” as I walked past but even after I said “hi” back and smiled broadly hoping for the next tranche in conversation, stared down into his beer.
It was on the dance floor, however, that my celebrity came to the fore. After dodging a drunken (or spastic) chap who lurched towards me and others with each thundering beat, I spotted my friend John French. I should have known someone as delicious as John would travel with an entourage. There must have been seven of them - each, it seemed, happier than the next to meet me. Picture the scene: Nancy Sinatra is singing Bang Bang; glittered, muscled bodies in hotpants and masks are gyrating in spot-lit alcoves, throngs of boys from neophytes to acolytes are dancing while I, on a disco-light dais, am introduced to John's coterie much like Audrey Hepburn receives guests in a Roman Holiday. That night, I drifted to sleep on an ego-buoyed cloud.
The next day, at a family lunch with Rabbi Lazarus, his fabulous wife Yona and my brother and family visiting from London, I was, again, the centre of attention.
Whomever said there was a time and place for everything was right. Family lunch at the Rabbi is not the place to talk about non-kosher restaurant eating. Not that I imagine for a moment them to be naive to the wicked ways of the world, however a certain self-censorship in recognition of their role in society is appropriate. Despite my best efforts, I couldn't steer conversation away from me and the things I eat. My mother, to her credit when asked about her views on my lifestyle, sensibly answered that I was an adult and she was no longer responsible for my tastes.
Still later that day, at dinner with Craig and Lindy Levinthal and his sister Terry at the excellent Kabab Mahal Indian restaurant in Sea Point, the owner had whipped 50% off our bill.
I must be a celebrity. Air-hostesses beware.