SO ON Saturday, the Percival family, six-strong and hardy, trekked from NSW to the MCG and braved the Icelandic conditions while watching the Cats thump the Tigers. Tom, you owe me big time.

Now, there was a purpose to this football madness: my sister Angela, who’s lived in Vancouver,  Canada, for 10 years wanted to see why Tom and his teammates were now officially “look at moi” footy stars.

The 32,000 beanie-clad crowd failed to impress, but that night two young fans did the trick. We were waiting for a table at a Mexican restaurant in Geelong when these cute-as-pie teens made a beeline for Tom with pad and pen in hands. They squealed, they smiled and jumped up and down – and Ange laughed.

You see, winning the grand final changed everything in the life of Tom Harley. Well, not everything but it definitely has boosted his “look at moi” status. And for the sake of this blog, mine too.

We get looks in the supermarket, double takes in the movies, triple head twirls when we run along the beach, and I rate the quadruple family neck cracks. In fact, I think I once saw an eight-week-old pop his head out of his pram … kidding.

We also get waves. And honks. And shouts from fans in cars. Oh, and we get stared down at traffic lights. That one is often the most squirm-worthy because you smile and wave, and wave and smile again.

Literally every time Tom steps out of his house, or my Sydney shoebox of a unit, he’s on public display. So does he get self-conscious? Well yeah, of course; they’re looking at him remember. Do I? Er, only if they’re female and looking me up and down in some freaky gangster's moll way. Trust me, it’s happened. But now, I’ve perfected the art of eyeballing them back. Nicely.

Then there’s the endless amount of autographs and these can happen at any time: in a shop queue; in a public loo (seriously); at the races and when we’re mid-heated discussion at other places. Tom’s been asked to sign arms and legs, premiership tattoos and, eek, boobs!

But the granddaddy of them all: the mid-mouthful autograph interruption when we’re on a so-called date. Now, this is where I become all Posh Spice-like, suck a lot of air in, purse my lips and smile through gritted teeth. And it’s happened more than once. Come on peoples, we’re eating food for footy’s sake!

Dogs have been called Harley, and kids born in September '07 have been named in his honour – how sweet! I say he’s pretty chuffed about this. Not so about his dwindling female pulling prowess. Then again, he rated highly in the looks stakes on a Melbourne radio station’s recent hot footballer poll. Or could that have been because I voted approximately 1265 times?

The most recent freaky fan encounter? A random note and number was sent to his home address. Um, did she not read the papers? He’s engaged you minx. To me. OK, I’m doing a Posh Spice number for the second time. Stop it.

Now look, I’m not having a whinge over it all – he, and we, do get free meals, the best tables at restaurants and hefty shop discounts. I’m just telling it how it is. And Tom would never moan about his “look at moi” status; he loves it and digs the support.

Even if his purpose in life is to throw a piece of leather around in six-degree freezingness to win this year’s flag … and sometimes that even makes us both laugh.

Felicity Percival is editor of Women's Health magazine and Geelong captain Tom Harley's fiance