Apologies for my absence but at this time of year I like to take my family to the Hay Festival, on the English-Welsh border.

The sun shone brightly as we set the tent up at Hay Outdoor Training, just a tome's throw from the festival site. Before I knew it, I was sitting listening to Clive James in one of the huge arenas for about 2,000 people.

James was as funny and clever as you might expect, so I thought I would get him to sign my copy of Falling Towards England after the talk.

I dashed along the duckboards to the festival bookshop where most of the signings take place and found myself in a queue about 30 yards long. James sat at a table, head bowed, signing copies of his books and dishing out a few bon mots here and there.

As I edged nearer one of Britain's funniest men, I got a tad over-excited and, unfortunately, lost my sense of humour.

What first made me a trifle tense was a blonde PR gel who ushered two of the sponsors right in front of me to get their books signed.

Then, just as I was about to approach James's table, a bloke in a check shirt bowled up, clutching a copy of the writer's latest essay collection.

He pushed in with the fabulous excuse that he had already queued once to acquire the Aussie's signature, but was back for seconds because the first copy was "slightly damaged".

I suspected the fella fancied selling one of the signed copies on eBay. Wearing an expression of bemused fury, I suggested that that the queue-jumper was welcome to join us, provided he tucked in behind me.

He muttered something sarcastic and I realised I had made a fool of myself and ushered him through, hoping that James had not overheard the mild contretemps.

"Ah, one of the golden oldies," purred James politely, as he signed my 1985 edition, but I was so flummoxed by the professional queue-jumpers that it took me a while to realise he was referring to the book, not my age.

I mumbled something inane, like "thanks for coming", and sloped off to join my family.