It was on Christmas Eve

After I arrived into Reading, I walked straight to Waterstones to pick up a copy of Keith Richards' Life for my dad.
Worryingly, they had run out, so I took the ace from under my sleeve and asked them to look for my order, as I had asked for this book to be delivered into the store, but had never been given a delivery notice.
Waiting for the elves to find me my book, I was approached by Stephen Benatar, who was there to promote one of his books - he was particularly keen for me to read his book there and then, but I was simply a missile, not about to be distracted or re-directed by other potential Christmas gifts.
I did apologise, even saying "Sir", as he seemed particularly distraught by the lack of Christmas spirit.
The store however rewarded me with my own ordered copy of Life, as well as a book on Orchids I'd ordered that I didn't expect to see this year still.
Now that I'm at my desk, I looked up the sociable writer, and realise it wasn't a (platonic) meet-cute, but simply his (rather admirable and successful) way of self-promotion.
I really ought to get myself a hat, so that I could take it off for him.