I believe it was early 2008, long before the term selfie was accepted into the English dictionary. By then I was almost two years into my role as a Civil Enforcement Officer in the City of London and on that day patrolling Finsbury Circus.

A moderately-priced-looking vehicle pulled up in front of me, not the kind you’d associate with a multi-millionaire, as I loitered by some parking bays. An older-looking gentleman got out of the car and modestly gestured towards me.

He asked something along the lines of ”do I have to pay to park here?” or ”where is the pay and display machine?”.

Having answered this very question every day for nigh on 24 months, I somewhat flippantly remarked ”it’s over there”. But then I did a double take.

It looked like that drummer from those Pink Floyd documentaries my dad would watch.

And then came the cringey moment when I lost all my legendary poise and sophistication and blurted out to him ”excuse me! are you famous?”.

He lowered his eye brows and slowly shrugged his shoulders as much to say ‘kind of I guess’.

I ran over to him and took a photo of him and me with my Sony Ericsson W300 and excitedly shook his hand even though he wasn’t really one of my hero’s. I sent the picture to my dad — a ‘traffic warden’ and a Pink Floydian. A bizarre concept.

I never saw Nick again.

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