Let's turn the clock back to July 1995. New York City. And it's hot. Trust-nothing smells quite like New York City in the summertime. I am attending my 3rd performance of Jonathan Kent's brilliant version of Hamlet, starring one Ralph Fiennes, a man with the world's most majestic profile.

I had been to see the show in London, but happened to also have the world's best looking blind date ever that evening. Honestly, this guy was dreamy... and a trauma surgeon. Named Nigel. How rich. How British. And, unfortunately, how incredibly fucking boring. My friend Steve and his girlfriend were also there. Although I didn't meet Ralph, I did get to be bored out of my skull, and just missed being arrested, but that has nothing to do with Ralph, so I'll move on.

I saw the show in NYC in previews, and went back this one last time because I just loved it and I loved Ralph in it. I had stood outside the stage door once before, I had just wanted to SEE Ralph, just to make sure he was real. I wasn't sure I wanted to meet him, but seeing him is always a thrill. At least in my life where nothing much ever happens.

So my friend Marianne and I watch the play. Bette Midler is sitting right behind me. With her 7 year daughter AND a friend. It's one thing to introduce your children to theatre and it's classics. It's another to take them to a 3 1/2 hour performance that they will get bored with within the first 10 minutes. She could have afforded the babysitter for pete's sake, she should have left the monsters home. But no. She brought them, and when they got so bored and were kicking seats so often that I was ready to scream, she let them GET UP AND RUN AROUND. I do not care who you are, common courtesy is expected of all us. Oh, and her dress was really tacky.

So, the play commences, another truly intoxicating show. Were Hamlet and his Mummy overly fond of one another? I don't really think so, but they were quite convincing in their Oedipal conflict at any rate. I myself think it was just good acting.

So we leave the theatre, where my friend Martha and her man will be waiting to meet us so we may proceed onto drinks. (We had a thing for the Vodka bar in the Royalton at the time.) Walking out, someone rather painfully bumps into Marianne and I, then begins to apologise profusely. It's Ron Howard, our own Richie Cunningham. He then goes on his way before we can ask after the Fonz.

Outside, we are in a pretty good spot to see Ralph. 2nd row. A bunch of New York New Yorkers were in front of us (accents, bug hair and all) and ask if I like Ralph. We talk about Ralph, I impress them with my transatlantic fandom and the fact I have a copy of the elusive Baby of Macon (starring Marcella Heer. Kind of.) People start to come out. Soon, the police barricade is put up and 2 police stand guard at the door. A Lincoln Town Car pulls up, and out walks...the lovely Mrs. Ralph Fiennes, the very beautiful and talented Ms. Alex Kingston. 2 of the New Yorkers can be heard to say "I hate her" and "what a bitch." As if they know her. I roll my eyes at Marianne. I take comfort in the fact that the humid New York heat wave has made her curls frizz out of control too.

Less than a minute later, Ralph emerges. He walks out, and looks stunned that there is a crowd. (He's been doing this since February, and tonight is shocked there is a crowd?) He has peach in his hand, which he proceeds to look at and seems to think "I'm holding a peach. Should give the peach to someone to hold for me? I may be asked for an autograph."

He seems to make up his mind that he need someone to oversee the care of the peach for a short time. Thank God the NYPD is there provide that important service. Can't be too careful with your fresh produce after all. With the peach safe in an armed cops hand, Ralph starts to go down the line. I am nearly knocked down by a guy the size of an NFL line backer. He wants Ralph to sign his poster. (And his mother, it seems, didn't teach him any manners.) At this point I think I am really not in the best place to be seen by Ralph, I will gaze lovingly and then take my leave. New York girl, who has just met Ralph (who, by the way, has not yet spoken a word to anyone) literally GRABS me and pulls me up. "This girl went to England to see you!" Not only am now identified as a fan, but I am identified to Ralph as a bit of an overzealous fan with a bit too much time and spare cash for their own good. He was ever so gracious though, and HE SPOKE to me. He asked me did I like the play? "Yes," I said. "Very well done." "Thank You." He saw my pen and my program in hand, and with that little demure look he has when he slightly raises his eyebrows as if in a question, he nodded toward them and reached for them. He took the time to turn to the page with the opening shot of his entrance in Hamlet, and signs. He gives them back, and goes onto the next person. Their pen does not work, and he simply says "Sorry, it's not working" and gives it back...and moves on. (Poor fan.) He then gets into his chauffeured Town Car and his whisked away into the night.

New York girl says "He spoke to you." New York girl number 2 says "He looked right at you! And he didn't turn my program to his picture, he just signed the cover." I say, well, obviously, he liked me the best. (As if.) I then look at my friends Marianne and Martha and Merrill, and they are laughing their asses off at me and my look of rapture. I made eye contact with Ralph Fiennes. They are indeed just as mesmerizing up close. My friends just have no idea.

Ralph himself looks shorter than his 5"10. And, he was very thin. He looked freshly showered (I don't think his head was totally wet from sweating. I certainly hope not. Nothing is worse than one of those really sweaty guys.) and clean and pink with his rosy cheeks. He had on khakis, his Charles Van Doren shoes (or a similar pair of broken in, well worn, wing tips) and 2 T-shirts.

Why these Fiennes brothers are always wearing 2 of whatever on their upper body when they meet me is intriguing. Hmmm...

He never retrieved his peach.