Your friend entered one of your stories in a competition, intending to give you the prize money if it won. But now she's been flown to another country, is giving radio interviews and making the front page. What's worse is that no one believes the story was yours.
These were autumn mornings, the time of year when kings of old went forth to conquest; and I, never stirring from my little corner in Calcutta, would let my mind wander over the whole world. — Rabindranath Tagore, The Cabuliwallah