Fifteen minutes of fame is what everyone gets, according to American artist Andy Warhol. But what he didn't mention is that even 15 minutes is too long. And how do I know? There's a celebrity in my home right now.
Imagine the scene. I'm in Stanley Plaza, minding my business. Suddenly, there are people running towards me, shouting, waving cameras. At last, I've been recognised! The great English writer! The adoration I deserve! I ready myself for autograph requests. But as they close in, I realise they aren't interested in me at all. The focus is the mini pop star holding my hand and grinning like a toothpaste commercial: my three-year-old, Emily.
Now Emily is a cute kid, but there's one thing about her that sends people wild: her white-blonde hair. The average Hongkonger won't bat an eyelid as Platinum Em comes bowling down the pavement looking for sweets and a good time. Western children are old hat. But those coach-loads of tourists, usually Chinese or Korean, who have never seen a cherub in Hello Kitty trainers before, are spellbound. And they want to capture it on camera.
The first few times it happens, it's quite sweet. But after a while, when you can't go anywhere without attracting a cooing crowd, it gets plain annoying. You can't believe how difficult picking up groceries becomes. Oh, the pressures of fame! Oh, the irritation of the paparazzi!
Besides, living with a celebrity starts to wear you down. Yeah, she's cute and everything, but what about me? I'm the schmuck who delivers the meals, changes the nappies and wipes the snotty nose. I'm the superstar here!
What can be worse than the ambitious mother who willingly propels her child into the limelight, I muse as I flip through a copy of Playtimes parenting magazine. It can't be a normal upbringing. Bound to bring on the worst kind of attention-seeking behaviour in the future.