I’ve always nursed a deluded hope that one day my little bit of brilliance would be realised and celebrated. Never quite sure in what direction this would manifest I’ve attempted everything from Kermit The Frog impressions to Karaoke in North Korea. Tragically all attempts were met with, at best raised eyebrows and at worst fines.
But I always knew that perseverance would one day bring redemption. And I’ve been proved very nearly almost right!
To distract us from the questionably naughty topics on offer, my writing class held each week’s session in a different location; a hotel, an artist’s studio, two coffee shops and then a pub called the James Joyce.
One of the more colourful participants had missed the previous class so just saw a note informing her we were meeting at James Joyces. Arriving late, red-faced and confused she told us what had caused her tardiness.
I thought we were meeting at someone’s house but I didn’t know the address she confessed so I asked someone in the university if they knew James Joyce. Of course! was the reply – you don’t? Well not really she replied timidly.
He’s an Irish writer, her helper offered. Pretty well known actually… he continued in disbelief.
Oh him! she said in relief, of course, he’s in our group. Do you know where he lives?
Yes, for the first (and I dare say the only) time in my life I was mistaken for James Joyce.
When they finally cleared up who the famous Irish author really was she rushed over to the bar and astonishingly admitted her story to the group.
I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed, charmed or utterly complimented. I mean if I HAD to choose I would have gone for Wilde, Sebastian Barry or probably even Joseph O Connor. But all in all, it’s an impressive step up from Kermit. I certainly sat higher in my chair for the remainder of the class and couldn’t help but look down at the others – relishing the knowledge that none of them had recently been mistaken for one of the world’s best known writers.
I have arrived! Kind of…
Conortje 
