Having A Butchers

This month Olly Mann comes up against the drawbacks of his short-lived television career

- Olly Mann

Picture the scene. I’m at the butcher’s, standing by the tills. I’m sort of in the queue, but I’m also waiting for some chicken thighs to be marinated, and it seems likely I’ll reach the cashier before my order is ready. This is a stressful scenario because, when I get to the front, I’ll have to step out of line, hanging awkwardly at the counter, half-smiling at my fellow shoppers, establishing sufficient rapport to step back into the queue once my meat is packed.

The shop is silent, save for the tap of the cash register and the rustle of plastic bags. Then, without warning, an elderly woman ahead of me spins round and says, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

My heart sinks—not just because I don’t know her from Adam, but also because I detect in her tonal amusement, her twinkly eyes and conspiratorial grin that she, too, knows we’ve never met. In a flash, I’m sure: she vaguely recognises me off the telly, but has no idea who I am.