The burden of proof
One thing Instagram does not need is another selfie, and definitely not one of me.
I rarely post personal pictures and have been critical of those who overload Insta feeds with gleeful snaps celebrating every minute and meal of their days, from muesli to midnight snack.
But then you meet a royal personage and someone takes a sneaky snap and, yes, the moment has been recorded, you (or I) really did meet Prince Charles, and there you are with whooshed-up hair and Himself with a bald spot that he surely didn’t imagine would be photographed from above.
There are few pics of me from all these years of travel.
No real evidence exists of me being apprehended in China in the late 1980s for photographing a military installation that I thought was my next hotel as it looked exactly like the building where I’d stayed the previous night.
I forgot my camera when I interviewed Tom Cruise in his Top Gun era and there were no iPhones then that you could snap-snap-snap and so there’s no picture of me with the most famous actor I’ve met.
I have sat next to Ronan Keating on a plane, and Julie Christie, and a woman who chatted to me about her “musical son” (she turned out to be Cliff Richard’s mother). No snaps of any of it, not even a snippet of a Keating tattoo.
Last December, thanks to an introduction from a mutual friend, I had dinner in Bali with the ABC’s Chris Bath and her Channel Seven sports broadcaster hubby Jim Wilson.
My hubby Graeme, an actor and Foxtel host with whom I have been successfully photographed many times, and much evidence can be produced thereof, is the most tremendous fan of Jim’s so the gorgeous Chris took a picture of him with me. I texted it home.
The pic arrived. Graeme shot back: “No way. That is a cardboard cut-out.”
To and fro the texts flew. Jim eventually had to ring a and “go live” with the sceptical Graeme.
Agreed, seeing isn’t always believing, but here are HRH and SK on Her Majesty’s Yacht Britannia in Wales. I so want to call it a Himselfie.