'You ran the marathon, man!' he says, punching me on the shoulder.

'Did I?' I say, before correcting myself and saying, 'I did?', because I'm in America and sometimes you have to translate.

'Yeah! In, like, five days! That's brave, man - that's really brave!'

I have literally no memory of running the marathon in five days. And surely I should have five days' worth. But this man is a fan of mine. He said so. He must be right.

And then I realise. He does not love my work. He has just looked me up on Wikipedia. But he has done it incorrectly, and memorised instead the career of the other Danny Wallace. The Danny Wallace who played football for Manchester United. The Danny Wallace who had bravely undertaken a torturous and commendable five-day marathon in the name of charity despite suffering from MS. The better Danny Wallace. No wonder this bloke was a fan.

'I'm not sure that was me,' I say, which is an understatement.

'Yeah, man!' he says. 'I remember!'

I shake my head. There is an awkward silence. I have let him down.

'So ... you any relation to William Wallace?' he finally asks.

'He's my dad,' I say.

And when I get home, I put it into Wikipedia.

FAX

The film company has put me up in a very posh LA hotel. So posh it costs as much to buy a variety pack of cornflakes as it would to buy the entire Kellogg's company. It is fair to say I do not really fit in here, but even so, I am alarmed and concerned by the looks the concierge gives me whenever I walk through reception, carrying my own non-hotel bottles of water and variety packs of cornflakes.

'Does he not know I was once on Daily Cooks Challenge?' I ask myself, grumpily, as the lift doors close. 'Does he not know I have met Antony Worrall Thompson?'

I get back to my room and sit down on the bed, thinking of the superior look the man on reception had given me. Why should I be confined to my room through embarrassment? Why should I sit here, feeling awkward and unable to leave?

Ignore it, I think. What can you do?

I fire up the internet and click about. I find my way to Twitter. I consider it. People are always on Twitter. Always swapping information. Opinions. Views. And they seem a friendly bunch. What if ... what if they could be mobilised? Mobilised to help, somehow? Help in gaining the respect of a man whose respect I do not need and would not normally crave?