Life's hierarchies are strange things, aren't they?

Those we revere and those we despise and how we distinguish between the two.

But often the most revealing is not the place we give to specific professions in society but rather how those at the very top of a specific pile relate to those at the bottom of another.

Take the lowly photographer for instance: Hardly the most respected of individuals in a newspaper office, yet take him to a political party conference and the masters of the known universe are literally gushing to get his attention, fawning and flattering, complementing on pictures past and camera present, taking an unnaturally keen interest in the intricacies of his duties, checking to see whether the light is right and the background is good, even offering bribes in the form of alcohol laced beverages in return for being shown at their most caring best.

In my previous life as a paparazzi photographer in London's West-End I was often spurned and abused by members of the general public who saw me as a peeping-Tom scumbag who goes around invading people's privacy.

Of course, the sad fact, of which Joe-Public is blissfully unaware, is that the very person who tipped me off is the one now hiding in the hotel room far above.

You see, celebrity needs publicity. Those in the limelight breathe exposure. Without it their fame would wither and die as sure as a lilly without water.

So there I was, at the Conservative conference, waiting for the arrival of the new but slightly tardy leader of the party. With me, a little girl holding a bunch of flowers as big as her head.

A party representative walks up to me and says: "As Mr Cameron is running a bit late, he will not be posing for pictures."

And I think to myself: "Just you try and stop him."