I AM NOT a star but I am famous in Biloela, where I grew up, and all fame is local and subject to the indifferent stroke of time’s air brush. I had a brush with celebrity when I was nominated for an Olivier Award. I had to arrive at The Dorchester in London in a huge old Rolls-Royce. After the initial and frightening swarm of photographers indiscriminately flashing and clicking, I was given an existential reminder as my foot hit the red carpet when the reporter who was closest to the door said to her photographer: “Don’t bother, it isn’t anybody.”

It was not my only moment. I was somebody for a moment quite recently in Hollywood. I was ushered into a very exclusive star hangout by bouncers who handed me through the crowd ahead of some recognisably famous friends. I was baffled by the special attention until I realised that the doorman thought I was somebody else. Joe Cocker’s people had rung ahead and warned them he was coming. Maybe he came in through the bathroom window.