I called a garage today to arrange some work for my boss' car.
"What's the car, what's the problem, what's your name" he demanded in a bored monotone, so I told him.
"Wait a moment, Are you Roger Lawrence the author?
In that one moment twenty years of slaving over a computer and several hundred large notebooks fell away. This was it; I was famous. Heavenly choirs murmured joyfully about my head.
"But how did you know?" I asked, my natural scepticism already beginning to stir.
"Have you got a couple of motorbikes?
"I used to work on reception of the motorbike shop you use."
In that instant all the joy spluttered away like water down a particularly cavernous toilet bowl.
"Yes I'm fine," I droned, arranging the work for the car.
The guy had stumbled upon my blog purely by accident a few years ago - and he didn't even buy a book.
Now I'm going to be depressed for the rest of the night and there's nothing anybody can do to stop me.