Behind the reception desk signed photographs of famous celebrities who had stayed there were displayed.

"You have a studio booking?" the pleasant young receptionist inquired. "Yes I do," I replied.

"And you'll be at the recording studio all day tomorrow?"

"That's right."

"Could I ask you a favour?"

"Yes, of course."

She gestured behind her to the hall of fame. "It's just that we usually have signed photographs of the people who read displayed on the wall."

"I should be delighted..." I began.

She cut me short. "We've got Greg Wise staying. You know, Greg Wise, the actor. He's married to Emma Thompson."

"Yes, of course," I said, recalling the dashing, darkly handsome Mr John Willoughby in the film version of Sense and Sensibility who rescues Marianne Dashwood when she gets caught in the rainstorm and sprains her ankle. He turns out to be a bit of cad and later deserts her to marry for money.

"Well," continued the receptionist, "he's staying here and he's recording at the same studio tomorrow. Could you ask him if we could have a photograph? I just went weak at the knees when he booked in. I was lost for words."

"I'll see what I can do," I replied. There was little chance of my photograph joining the great and good on the wall behind reception.

Greg Wise was a most charming and unassuming man and readily agreed to the request to have his photograph taken. In fact, he was extremely courteous when people approached him for his autograph or to tell him how much they enjoyed his films.

"I suppose it's part of having an easily recognisable face," he confided in me. "A little tiresome at times when you want to get about your business and people keep on coming up to you. But I don't mind really."

One evening, as we ate a meal in the hotel restaurant, I was conscious of people staring, pointing and discussing him and as we got up to go several approached him for his autograph.

"Are you his agent?" one man asked me.

"No, I'm not," I replied rather peevishly, "and I'm not his father either."

It was the last day of recording and we were setting off for the studio when two elderly women caught sight of us crossing the small square to the front of the hotel. I saw one of them point at us and another scrabble in her handbag for a pen.

"Here we go again," said Greg. "I'm sorry about this."

The elderly couple approached but looked past my companion and straight at me. "It's Gervase Phinn, isn't it?" said one of the women.

"It is," I said. "We heard you speak at the Women's Institute AGM last year," said her companion. "And we've read your books," added the other. "Do you think we could have your autograph?"

I turned to Greg Wise. "Ah, what it is to be famous," I said smugly.