To while away the time at airports, I like to spot celebrities. But pickings have been slim. Where is everyone? On Saturday morning the only face I see is ex-Scottish Labour leader Jim Murphy, guiltily bolting a free bacon roll in the BA executive lounge at Heathrow. Check your privilege, Jim! To be fair, he was wearing a tracksuit, so I guess that’s OK.
Part of the pain of being a newspaper feature writer is the constant demand to have your photograph taken. It’s hideous in every way. I don’t think I would have agreed to write about the Viva Mayr spa clinic in Austria if I’d known a snapper would be coming along to capture my every purging triumph. The good news? Mark is a really nice guy. The bad news? He had previously photographed David Aaronovitch of the Times in the same place. As Mark details his shoot list, I listen carefully, because writers must balance the need to be a helpful colleague with being a right diva.
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