My heart was racing as I rummaged through my gold clutch bag. My phone had disappeared as I was sitting in a London hotel bar. Please let it be in my bag, I prayed.
Before I could go into a full-on meltdown, the man sitting opposite me began to search on the floor, telling me not to worry and that it would turn up.
That man was Wayne Rooney, then Manchester United and England’s star striker. We were enjoying a late drink at the Royal Lancaster Hotel after he’d been named Player of the Year by the prestigious Football Writers’ Association, back in the spring of 2010.
Having flown in for the night from Majorca where he was holidaying with wife Coleen and their baby Kai (who stayed in the sunshine while Wayne flew back for the do), he celebrated with a nightcap and a gossip with me after a colleague had arranged for us to meet.
Clearly star-struck by Wayne, then just 24, I had momentarily taken my eyes off of my beloved Blackberry and it had been swiped from under my nose.
I called…
