I suppose you could say I’ve been a little bit famous.
Not “you watch me on television every week and know my name” famous.
And not “you see me excelling week-in, week-out on the sporting field” famous.
More in the context that a few people used to stumble down to the shop of a weekend to buy a newspaper because they wanted to see what I had to say.
You might argue this is not fame. “Ha! A few people know you and you think you’re famous, you old sap.”
Yes, I understand. So I’ve taken the liberty of finding the definition which says someone famous is “known about by many people”.
We could enter parley about how many “many” actually is. Semantics. I’ve settled on “a little bit famous”. Smidgeon would suffice. Either way, you’ll have to indulge my interpretation.
It was Wanda – my lovely wife who you met a couple of weeks ago in this column – who got me thinking about the topic.
Wanda warned me I needed to be a little careful that I didn’t once again rediscover my audience. I’ll explain soon.
For transparency, the editor of this paper and I have a little agreement which says I’ll construct 400, or thereabouts, words of prose each week on two conditions. One, he pays me. The other, that he doesn’t reveal my true identity to anyone. I know he has a dog. Don’t even tell your furry friend, Mr Editor.
So back to the whole audience thing. Once upon a time before the internet, people with much time on their hands used to buy pens, paper, envelopes and stamps.
They’d post letters into a thing called a postbox which would two or three days later arrive on my desk. The letter, not the postbox.
That’s not a bad thing. Quite often it’s uplifting to receive notes of agreement or praise. Yet, among the letters there would be tirades of abuse littered with spelling errors. The abuse I could handle, the spelling mistakes not so much.
They were what young people now call “trolls”, what comedians call “hecklers”, what Donald Trump calls “the media” and what Eddie McGuire calls “the public”.
These scandalmongers take some pleasure in creating nonsensical arguments unworthy of response.
“So why Wayne, would you allow such trivialities to concern you?”
I’m glad you asked. With fame comes recognition. On occasion, the nuisances of the world would strike up conversation while my ice cream melted at the checkout. I would politely respond and get on with my day.
I always advocate common courtesy. However, as any famous person will tell you, civility comes at a price.
The cost might be the time it takes to smile and nod. It might be the jaw muscles which ache during said pantomime. It might be the day of frustration which follows a certain comment passed during conversation.
Whatever it is, I’m retired now, and I’ve become rather particular about the state my ice cream arrives to the freezer.
That said, please don’t stop writing. It’s quite pleasant reading letters behind my newfound anonymity. And deep down, I might even like being that little bit famous.
