In which the finest prose writer in the English language is mistaken for an Indian guy who cannot speak English

My dear readers know of my ambivalent relationship with Sir Vidia Naipaul, Nobel Laureate, titan and living legend. On the one hand, there is A House for Mr Biswas, a novel almost without compare in contemporary literature. Miguel Street. The Suffrage of Elvira. The Mimic Men. The Enigma of Arrival. And there are those fine, penetrating essays. On the other hand ... well, on the other hand there is the other hand. I was amused and delighted by this account of an encounter with Sir Vidia, written by the South African writer Gillian Schutte and published on BookZa. I particularly loved this moment when her perplexed son asked her why Sir Vidia was just looking at them and not saying a single word.

"The conversation seems to be going well. I refill wine glasses and go to prepare the food. I lay out the array of curries and stainless steel plates. I like stainless steel plates … especially when eating tumeric soaked curry. Will they feel insulted? Well fuckit. You cannot expect the finest china and home cooked food when given a couple of hours notice.

Kai comes through to say he is tired. I take him to his bedroom to tuck him in.

‘Mom does the Indian guy not speak English?’ he asks.

“Kai, he is the foremost English prose writer of the western world … he speaks English alright.’ He looks perplexed. ‘Oh, I thought he could not understand what you guys are saying because he just sits and watches and he doesn’t talk."

Kai darling, after Kush, Tapiwa, RufaroTheGruffalo, Tamuda and that poor kid John Last in A Handful of Dust, you are now my absolutely favourite kid. If your parents ever tire of you, you know where to go.