July the tenth at 6:23 PM was when I became famous for the second time. The first time, in that little French café opposite the sign for craniosacral therapy, had been a total disaster. It had been an unmitigated disaster – a real cock-up. That had been horrible. Things had gone very badly wrong. But this time was different. It was like a flash-gun going off in my head, illuminating everything. A magnesium flare. Dispersing the camouflage once and for all. Instant recognition! Everyone on the street knew me for who I was straightaway. No mistakes, no misidentifications. No bad feeling. Not like the other time. People smiling at me even though we’d never met. That special look in their eyes – like they were winking at me but they didn’t need to actually wink. If you know what I mean. It was all in the moment. You had to be there. Everybody knew. The disguise was off, no need to pretend any more, no need to lie low. No need to go on with the bullshit. That wonderful intimate gracious moment of universal recognition. Like a flash of light. The knowing looks. Smiles all around. Everybody so happy. Everybody nodding, as if to say “Yes, I know it’s you…!” It was coming true. I had arrived. I was famous – for the second time.