Rather than avoiding a nervous meeting with celebrities, we should seize the opportunity and hope they do not disappoint us. It is, after all, not an uncommon problem to have, given the significant extension of what that word ‘famous’ means in recent years. Implicit in the question of how the non-famous and famous relate to each other is a delineating marker between one set of people, who are well known (only sometimes owing to great achievements), and the rest of us. The more I dwell on it the harder it is to accept as a principle, even though it is clearly a fact. I realise I take an experimental approach: I always choose to meet famous people.

One reason is instinctively, selfishly human, and has to do with immortality. In Simone de Beauvoir’s All Men Are Mortal, Regina, a vain and beautiful young actress, resolves to make Fosca, an immortal Italian noble, love her more than he has loved any other woman; if she succeeds she knows she will live forever in his undying mind. Obsessed with her own mortality, Regina comes to realise that fame will never be enough: ‘Everything will be exactly the same, except that I won’t be here any more’, she muses while scanning her anonymous hotel room, ‘If only one could leave an impression of oneself in the air, where the wind howled as it rushed in.’ Fosca provides her with a means of approaching eternity: ‘Ten thousand years from now, someone will still remember me,’ she tells her mortal lover while justifying abandoning him.

I often wondered whether countless French presidents approached a state visit to the UK and a meeting with Queen Elizabeth II the same way: our closest equivalent to immortality is great age and a sharp memory. By the end of her long reign, Her Majesty had met 15 British prime ministers (from Churchill to Liz Truss) and 13 US presidents – from Truman to Obama, Trump and Biden. She corresponded with Eisenhower for many years. She lived knowing that every action she took was significant and would be remembered: during Biden’s state visit to the UK in June 2021, she invited the President and the First Lady to her private apartment for a cup of tea. First Lady Jill Biden said the queen insisted on being the one to hold onto the teapot: ‘She had a big teapot. And Joe said to her: “Here, let me help you.” The Queen had been quite insistent, however. “No, no, no. You sit,” she told the president. “I will serve you.”’

How must it have felt, as US or French president, to talk privately with someone who could remember those same conversations with Eisenhower and de Gaulle? Niggling in the back of their minds must have been the question: how will I measure up? The suggestion that if they could just impress her more than any other then they would become the greatest French leader of all time: ‘I will make myself more memorable than de Gaulle!’ For the rest of us, it is still possible to believe that if one can make a famous person take notice, then one’s otherwise ephemeral impact in the world will be a little bit longer-lasting. One also, by association, might become a little bit famous; follow a famous actor onto the set, linger in the mind of a famous writer as they consider the plot of their next novel. Taylor Swift’s former boyfriends immortalised in song lyrics cease anymore simply to have physical form but become classical anti-heroes.

The second reason for approaching a famous person is to see what they are like. I test them and I judge them. There is a lot to observe from one who has achieved fame, or at least eminence. By now, they expect to be recognised, and this has changed them in many ways.  What can we learn: are they pleased with themselves? Do they see themselves as being elevated or worth more than others? What is the light in their eyes like? Are they on drugs?  Do they make time to talk or are they scanning the room? Can they converse normally about something completely inconsequential? How a famous person responds to their fellow humans is an important mark of character and of humanity, particularly if they can do so without being condescending. Hopefully, they will have retained an ability to be interested and curious, not so aware of their status that they must be kept separate. Of course, there are many reasons why a famous person may be reluctant to engage: they may be suspicious or not trusting, or else miserable, shy, out-of-sorts, under pressure, afraid. Spare a thought for a person whose every word might be remembered; it would be a kindness not to ask them to think up any new ones.

It is a wonder indeed that anyone can cope with the constant knowing that complete strangers have an opinion on you based entirely on what they have seen or heard. Many interviewers marvel at the fact that their celebrity interviewees are ‘quite natural’ in real life; that they strive to stay ‘grounded’ by keeping their old friends. ‘I lost all of my friends when I got famous, like, literally all except one – my best friend Zoe, who I have been friends with since I was two’, Billie Eilish told Lily Allen and Miquita Oliver’s podcast Miss Me?: ‘So all of my friends became my employees, which I felt was fine, and I was like: “What do you mean? I have friends, I have so many friends!” Then it was my 20th birthday, and I remember looking around the room, and it was only people that I employ, and I was like, hmm. And all 15 years and more older [sic] than me.’

Meeting a famous person by chance allows for boldness and whimsy from both parties. As a teenager I experienced a sudden triptych of brushes with the famous which became three pins in the chart of living: my grandfather spotted George Best in an airport bar and rushed my sister and me forward to ask for his autograph (he was happy to sign and chat; sadly, I can’t remember anything he said). Wham! turned up in a tangle of denim and drum kits to disturb our lunch at the Naafi restaurant at Checkpoint Alpha in Helmstedt, the border crossing into East Germany. We didn’t know who they were until it was too late to ask. By far the best was Edward Fox, in Berlin to film Wild Geese II, a film about a group of mercenaries hired to spring Rudolf Hess from Spandau Prison. I approached him during lunch at the Officers Club while he was helping himself to three boules of vanilla ice cream. ‘To Suzanne. Lots of Lovely Luck’, he wrote. He has been the benchmark for charm ever since, and a foundation stone for my strongly held belief that there should be no limit to ice cream.

Nowadays, the circle of people who are a little bit famous, although perhaps still less famous than they would want to be, is ever-growing. Even if we can’t quite define it, there is a special category for people who are truly ‘great’, either through their deeds or their creations. Several times at recent dinners I have found myself sitting next to what might be called a ‘minor celebrity’ and not quite sure on the etiquette. A modern manners challenge is whether it is more polite to acknowledge that you know who they are or to say nothing. I like to get it over with straight away; an alternative and quite wonderful option is simply not to mention it at all.

Some of my best celebrity encounters have been when we are both going about our normal business. And never forget that being famous doesn’t solve all life’s little problems: in 1984 we waited after a sporting event at the Olympic Stadium in Berlin to meet David Ottley, who had just won the silver medal in the men’s javelin at the Los Angeles Olympics. He stood there with his sports kit looking a little lost. ‘I’ve missed the bus and don’t know where I am,’ he said.  It is important not to exclude the possibility that famous people, like the rest of us, might just need help getting home.