So, it's the interval of last night's KUTV: Libby Carton had over run a little and while the brilliant Chris Murphy (of here and here) tried his best to claw back time we only had a 5 minute "comfort break". Off everyone goes to the toilet. I'm standing just inside, behind the door in a gig-like queue waiting for a free spot when the door opens, bumping my shoulder. And who should poke his head around the door but Spiekermann.
There I am, standing next to the man who's informed my work, who's inspired me, who I've admired for years. What do I say?
There's only one thing I can think of. So I lean towards him, "Corrected you on Typophile a couple of weeks ago". Doe! (But I don't leave it there). "It wasn't Frutiger, it was Avenir...blah, blah, blah".
He doesn't remember. I think I've caught him off guard. Perhaps it's the location. Perhaps it's just the oblique remark. I, for one, am feeling uncomfortable. It gets worse. Suddenly, I find myself standing next to him at the urinals, still talking, still trying (and failing) to get myself out of a hole, trying hard not to look such an arse. And guess what? (And most men, I hope, will be able to relate to this) I can't go. I'm trying to urinate with Spiekermann and nerves have got the better of me.
So I fake it and get out of there - but still talking! I just won't let him go. Across the corridor, back into the lecture theatre. Still talking! Drivvle!
Thank god it's time for him to go on. I nip back to the toilet, get back to my seat, colleagues laughing and on he comes. Brilliant!