Vicarious Fame

          Yesterday, I spoke to a voice recognition system so useless that it couldn’t even recognise the word “yes”. I was indignant. I don’t have a regional accent or any peculiarities of speech that I’m aware of. In fact, in my prime, several people told me that I spoke like James Mason, the actor. Some even said that I looked like him as well, to which I was never quite sure how to react. I mean, it felt like they might be saying, “Hard luck, you’re almost someone famous…”

          Occasionally, I have met people whose features remind me of well-known characters and, when I’ve said so, their reactions have been mixed: they might have been disturbed because they didn’t want to identify themselves with that particular celebrity; chuffed because it was someone they admired; or blank because the similarity had never occurred to them. On the other hand, occasionally, I fail to recognise the face of someone that I have interacted with several times before – as happened at a social event this week. As we sat down to a vegan meal in the company of mutual friends and acquaintances, I offered my apologies and excuses (different contexts etc.) and she accepted them graciously, but my fingers are still crossed for the budding relationship.

          The following morning, my Other Half and I had planned to go to the cinema for an early showing of a recently released blockbuster with a long title that I couldn’t remember and starring a famous actor, you know, the one who was in that film we saw – when was it? – about that bloke who thought he was…And so it went on. In the end, it didn’t matter because we didn’t go. The weather was so fine that we decided instead to put on our boots and go for a country walk. To further incentivise ourselves, we devised a mission – to locate the legendary but elusive Canteen at Maker Heights, a casual-dining establishment revered by local foodies. We’d walked past it several times on a low section of the coastal path, but it’s only visible if you climb up the hill. The Canteen is so named because it occupies a Nissen hut, one of many left-over military buildings sprawled around fortifications at the top of the hill. The complex was initially built in anticipation of an invasion by French and Spanish forces, with whom we had disputes at the time. They saw an opportunity to attack while most of the Royal Navy’s ships were stationed off North America, where they were engaged in the ill-fated attempt to suppress the colonial independence movement. However, the pesky foreigners never really got their act together and the fortifications were never tested. Today, they serve as leisure facilities based around camping and outdoor pursuits, the Canteen having upgraded from basic caff to trendy venue by appointing a creative chef who has introduced high-quality catering backed up by properly trained staff. They did not disappoint, serving up an epic bacon sandwich on home-made focaccia, the crucially different ingredient.

          Bread used to be the staff of life, but most of it now is far from wholesome, which is why I make a point of stocking up at one or other of the two authentic bakeries near home. I was at one of them the following morning and, while waiting my turn to be served, noticed a fellow customer, someone whom I’d seen a few times and remembered because of his distinctively bohemian appearance – though I’d like to think his talents are for more than dressing up. He was waiting for a coffee and, when it came my turn to speak up he said, “What a smooth voice you have.” We joked about my applying for a job as a radio presenter (“send them a voice-message”) before I left with my loaves, buoyed up on a tide of recognition as someone who might have been famous...