Thankfully, I am not a celebrity. I am not well known. Apart from my close family and a few friends, not many people know me. When I walk the streets no one knows me, I hope. Sometimes not even my dog knows me. When I get home at night he growls at me and tries to attack me. Not being well-known suits me, I suppose. Because I am a shy kind of person. I am never the centre of attention. People would not notice me in a crowd. In fact they would not notice me if I was the only one there. I'd brighten up any party by just leaving it.
But enough of me. Let's get on with the story.
A few months back, before all this staying at home trend ... oh ... by the way ... if I may digress ... as I often do when my mind wonders ... does anyone know how long is this social distancing thing supposed to last? Only my wife keeps trying to come into the house and I won't let her!
Being alone in the house is weird, I tell you. The trash bin gets out more often than me. The other day I started talking to a spider. He said he was a web designer. I needed something from the supermarket. I checked the internet. It said that a mask and gloves were enough to go shopping in. They lied, everyone else had clothes on.
Anyway, as I was saying, I am not well known. A few months back I was in another town up North visiting relatives and I went to the shop to buy a new pair of trousers. I picked up a pair and went into one of those booth type places with curtains to try the trousers on. As soon as I got my own trousers off a shop assistant pulled back the curtains and said, "can I have your autograph please?"
Well I never ... I thought ... I mean ... I never gave my autograph to anyone without my pants. Or even with my pants, I hasten to add.
But he smiled and held out a piece of paper and a pen. I hesitated as I got dressed.
"I really like your songs," he said, "I have your records at home!"
"I'm afraid you're mistaken," I said putting the trousers back on the coat hanger, or is it trouser hanger? What do they call those hangers in shops for trousers? Anyway ... "I'm afraid you're mistaken," I said.
"You are Don Williams, aren't you?" he asked.
"No ... I am not," I replied, "I'm sorry to say that he is dead. He died a while back!"
"So, you're dead?" he asked.
I hesitated a while. Not something I do often. "No ..." I replied, "thankfully I am alive, but Don Williams is dead!"
He was either not listening, or he was unable to think; or probably both. Because he said, "I like your song Twenty Four Hours From Tulsa!"
He obviously got my brains all in a scramble because I stupidly said, "This is not one of my songs; Gene Pitney sang it, not me!"
"She is good," he said, "I liked her when she sang These Boots Are Made For Walking!"
I "signed" his piece of paper in a scribble and left the shop hurriedly before anyone else recognises me.
