Way back when, if you can cast your mind so far, we did a show on a boat.

Feverish with enthusiasm - full of that pallid fervour perhaps peculiar to directors - myself and my favourite Ross trotted along to the Traverse festival launch event. Drank deeply and threw ourselves honourably at people we hoped might be useful.

Suffering from a ridiculous case of hero worship for a fellow called Mark Fisher who writes for The Guardian, I somehow took it upon myself to think that I might go and talk to him.

He was very patient and listened politely as I babbled about this and that show that we'd done. And oh don't you know, you should come and see this show that we're doing on a boat in Leith in the festival. The Tempest, don't you know. Oh how brave and bold and imaginative we are. And so the self-congratulation (slurrily) rolled on. Poor Mark Fisher.

I rued my shameless exhibitionism a little less when he emailed me weeks after the show on the boat had sunk not quite without trace and asked if he could interview me for a book he was writing about putting on shows in the Fringe.

Hmm, let's think about this. Ok.

So we met, one lunch time, I frisky with excitement but trying to appear cavalier. "Do you mind if I record it?" said he, "it'll save me taking so many notes". Oh how we laughed that this was my day job spiel too. Oh how I tossed my hair and simpered and tried to look worldly wise and plump with sense. And oh how I tried to tread a careful political line between what I wanted to say and what I ought to say, given that heaven forfend, it might end up in print.

And then he wends his way away, back to the world of reviewing for a national newspaper. And I wend my way back to my day job and mooning over half-empty squash bottles in kitchen cupboards that reminded me of the show on the boat that hadn't quite sunk without trace.

Fast forward eighteen months and it's now. The publication date is imminent. In fact, Mr Fisher now has a printed copy of the book in his very own hands.

And you know how it is. You're assuming you're cannon fodder. The initial tokenistic research, soon discarded for much sexier stories from people that - you know - people have heard of. I didn't really - in my wildest of dreams - expect to form any composite element of this aforementioned book.

So imagine how I fizzled with delight at this:

(On twitter, for B S Neill's benefit.)

Man oh man.

You know, even if no mention at all ever even in the index or footnotes of this admirable tome is made of me, I feel absurdly happy that my name made it into the same tweet as a Fringe reference, a link to a book and a journalist.

Who'd've thought?