Not Making The Grade

The fates mock me. I’m in Manchester again and who do I see on Piccadilly Station at 7.50? Michael Grade. I gave him a nod, a smile, a flash of my cufflinks but he refused to shake my hand. I would have said something but I was rushing for the office.

But is this a sign of what I've become? A pariah, shunned by the very men that once begged me on their knees to adorn their morning sofa? Is this the fate of all handsome talent consigned to satellite?