Why I still don't watch reality TV

I was talking to a person recently, as you do, and they were kind enough to say 'You should write this stuff down.' Basically, the more you think about the richness and variety of life, the more it becomes disturbingly apparent that not everyone goes through the things you or I personally go through. Here are some examples of things:

I went to a PR event for a French resort that my workplace is tentatively connected to, and was introduced fairly early in the evening to two young gentlemen called something like Sam and Steve. Neither of them had name badges as an aid memoire, so it was inevitable I immediately forgot their monikers, but I began a conversation with one of them by asking why they didn't have these plastic name tags, which all of the other guests were given on their way into the venue. He shrugged and said 'We know some people.' Not seeing any real problem with this answer, I gamely continued 'What do you do?' and he replied that he was something in sports publicity. Again, his answer was broad enough that my memory fails me (this happens a lot). I jumped for joy - I was struggling with putting together the calendar of a sporting venues supplement my workplace is aiming to publish. There are many things I wouldn't claim expertise on, and sports is right at the top of the list, but the task had fallen to me in a 'no other bugger will do it' kind of way.
'I need someone who knows sports!' I exclaimed, giving the young man a slightly more positive overview of my work on the sporting calendar, 'Let me give you my card.' He gave me none in return, but etiquette dictated that he must now send me a message over the following few days at least saying how pleasant it was to meet me.
Pleased at having secured this contact, I continued my evening. Little did I know, until roughly 20 minutes later when speaking to two fantastic girls who write for a travel website, that the two roguish young men were from Made in Chelsea, and had come to the evening apparently just because they could. I thought it was funny, then strange, then I baulked: I had just over-enthusiastically found what now seemed like a paper-thin excuse to thrust my card into one of their well-manicured hands.
I cringe at it even now, and pray desperately that I seemed so ill-bred that he doesn't even recall what, in retrospect, looks like a journalist making a desperate pass at someone purely because they were on Made in Chelsea.