Once my favourite author, David Sedaris has become a first-class prat

A flight attendant friend of mine was in Harrods once when she spotted Rod Stewart in the toy department. She froze when she saw him – a bit like what you might do if you’d just stumbled across the very rare rufous-headed hornbill scratching around in the wild.

She greatly admired Stewart and his music, so she stood for a while watching him browse before gathering the courage to walk over and tell him how wonderful she thought he was.

Author David Sedaris has been touring Australia this month.

Unfortunately, she didn’t get a word out before the mouth that once gently crooned I am Sailing told her to “Sod off!”

She was too shocked to move at first, but when she did sod off, she clutched at her chest as if she’d been stabbed.

It took her a while to recover and, even now, 20 years later, when she tells the story at dinner parties – always to gales of laughter – I can tell that a tiny bit of the bad taste of that experience is still with her.

I haven’t met too many famous people in my life. This is probably a good thing because I’m sure I’d do or say something very embarrassing that I would spend the rest of my life regretting. Which is why when I went to see one of my writing idols – David Sedaris – last week, I didn’t wish to meet him face to face.

I didn’t want to tell him that I have every one of his books and that he’s the only author who can make me laugh out loud. I didn’t want to share with him that I’m a small-time writer, or that he has been a great influence on my work. I was content to take a back seat; all I wanted was close proximity.

The night didn’t start well. When I arrived at the venue, I saw Sedaris at a table signing books and chatting amiably. This was my close proximity, I thought, whipping out my phone to take a picture to share with my children, who had gifted me the ticket. But from nowhere an usher jumped out, hands in the air like a goal defence, to scream “NO PHOTOS!”

When I managed to catch my breath, I apologised profusely. “I’m sorry! I didn’t realise.”

The usher pointed at one of the many signs in the lobby saying, “NO PHOTOS OR VIDEO RECORDINGS”. Signs – despite their multitude – that had somehow skipped my attention.

I retreated to find my seat and, while waiting for Sedaris to come on stage, I reflected on what had just happened. I could understand a ban on videoing the performance, but what harm was I doing taking a picture of him sitting at a table and signing a book for a fan? Isn’t this a large part of what he does for a living?

Sedaris is prolific – both in the amount of writing he has published and sold (his global book sales exceed 16 million), and his touring. His latest visit to Australia marks his fourth tour Down Under, where he entertains often – if not always – sold-out crowds with passages from his books and diaries, and general chit-chat about his observations on life.

This was what I had expected as I settled in and prepared to enjoy the show, despite still feeling rattled by the scolding I’d received minutes earlier.

I’ll skim past the “funny” stories Sedaris shared – about people attributing their demise to AIDS because it’s easier to spell than gonorrhea, or the red whistle he once gave to a teenage boy only realising later that it was a rape whistle, and reasoned, “Oh well, perhaps he can blow it when he starts raping someone?”

What I did become aware of during these tales was that while the people around me were laughing uproariously, I was not. What on earth? Here I was seeing my funny writing hero tell his stories live and yet, I could barely crack a smile. Then the unthinkable happened.

One of my pet peeves is listening to rich people brag about what class they fly. To me, it’s a sign you’ve become too precious when you feel the need to remind people that you turn left when you board the plane. Call it what you will – Jealousy? Envy? Probably both – but top of my “To Don’t” list when I win the lottery is to keep this sort of information to myself.

While I know Sedaris has himself effectively won the lottery by being a writer who can not only financially sustain himself from his work, but do exceedingly well, his self-deprecating writing style and middle-class upbringing had led me to believe that I wouldn’t ever be privy to his seat number. Turns out, I was wrong.

Throughout his 90-minute performance, he mentioned that he flies first class multiple times. By the third time, I found myself on my feet and walking towards the usher.

“Sod off,” I said under my breath as she clicked the door shut behind me.

Annemarie Fleming is a freelance writer and author.

The Opinion newsletter is a weekly wrap of views that will challenge, champion and inform your own. Sign up here.