Have you ever tried to explain to a foreigner who someone very famous is, when their fame is limited to your own country? Like, for example, trying to explain Robbie Williams to the Americans, or being French and trying to convince a Brit that Johnny Halliday is a god. It's hard work.
It's even harder trying to explain who that person is, and why you are dressed as them to someone who doesn't really speak your language and who really just wants to punch you.
Saturday night I found myself in a rough bar in Middelburg (Middel-of-nowhere-burg) dressed as Anneka Rice, trying to explain my big blond wig and jumpsuit to the locals.
Luckily I wasn't alone - there were four of us Anneka-likees and one treasure. Yes, my good friend the government finance advisor was in full drag, with 'treasure' fakely tattooed down his thigh.....he stood six foot eight in his six inch platform heels and was, to say the least, devastatingly gorgeous.
My Anneka outfit had a toy helicopter attached by wire to my headset, and it did a good job of bouncing around and poking people in the eye. I don't know if you've ever tried to have a decent conversation when you've got a big chopper flapping around in front of your face....it's most distracting, I can tell you.
The locals were fascinated by us, but decided pretty early on that they weren't interested in the celebrity behind the costumes. They were just enchanted by our womanly curves and beautiful blond-ness. Unfortunately, I looked a bit more like Vanessa Feltz than Anneka Rice, but hey I thought I was hot.
We got bought plenty of drinks and a couple of the Annekas headed to a 'house party' with a couple of unruly looking locals. We played it a little safer and ended up in the Brooklyn bar, dancing on tables to 'I will survive', which was obviously being played in our honour. Sweet jesus, it was more than a little ridiculous.
Anyway, the night got longer and the drinks got stronger, and before you know it we're heading back to the hotel, me secretly jealous of the attention that Treasure got, but secretly thrilled that I wasn't trolling around in those heels on cobbles.
We woke up the next morning looking like we'd been dug up from under the patio. A very extensive beauty routine, conducted largely through a morning-after-foggy-haze, was necessary to get us looking human and alive again.
The hotel seemed quite pleased to say goodbye to us. The bedroom we left behind looked like a bomb had gone off in a princess's boudoir. I'm not sure how they'll ever get the glitter off the bedlinen.
Today I'm in London for a meeting with Sir Bernard Ingham, Margaret Thatcher's former Press Secretary. I won't be showing him the photos.