I couldn’t believe my luck when David Bowie befriended me on holiday. We sat at a picnic table in the sunshine to leaf through his sketchbook while discussing his musical influences. He was so caring that he even arranged for the secure storage of my bank and credit cards with his fortune in the personal safe in his hotel suite.

On my last day, I knew that I would miss my booked train at 12:30 if I lingered too long in Bowie’s company. However, I wanted to enjoy every possible last minute with my famous companion, so I rang TPR to tell him that I would return home later. In any case, I needed to retrieve my cards from the safe.

When I asked Bowie’s PA to fetch my belongings, he laughed in my face. My cards had been sold onto criminals who, in all probability, had already emptied every account.

How had I not realised that my ‘Bowie’ was a fake? How had I forgotten that David Bowie died in January 2016? How would I get home?