Brad Pitt sat at the end of my bed at the Balmoral Hotel, Edinburgh. In such close proximity to the famous movie star, I could see that his face was covered in tiny freckles. These comprised a mixture of miniscule orange pinpricks and airforce blue flecks. Just below Brad’s hairline I noticed that the freckles appeared to be in clumps. I moved closer and saw that these were not freckles at all, but the names of Brad and Angelina’s children and their dates of birth etched into his skin in orange tattoo ink.

“Shall we call Angelina on Skype?” asked Brad, clearly in an attempt to distract me from examining his strange tattoos any further.

“Sure”, I replied, pulling my iPhone out from under the sheets.

We happily chatted to Angelina for about twenty minutes, the best of friends. Then Brad said that he had to leave.

“Before you go, please could we have a photo?” I asked. Brad hesitated. “Actually, I’m here in Edinburgh on unofficial business, so I’ll only agree to a picture on the condition that you don’t post it to Facebook.” I consented (albeit reluctantly). After some fumbling around with an old compact film camera, we eventually found my small Canon digital, and a photograph was captured.

It was only in the hotel toilets later that day that it crossed my mind that the call to Angelina in California would show up on my bill, and could run into thousands of pounds. Whatever would TPR say?

“I shouldn’t worry about that” said a smartly dressed blonde woman when I expressed my anxieties out loud in my cubicle. You didn’t have Brad on your bed, nor Angelina on the phone. You were just dreaming.”

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