I have a shameful confession. I have developed a massive crush on a man who is not David Mitchell. David! Forgive me! But then, as we're not going out anyway, it's hardly as though I am the last word in wanton adultery. And it's definitely not going to progress from unrequited to requited, because I broke Rule 3.4 of Being A Successful Singleton, which is 'Always dress to impress. Yes, even if you're only popping out to the corner shop, because it is Sod's Law that that is where you will meet someone handsome, funny and clever whilst you are buying an Observer and a loaf of bread'.



It was a Friday morning. As we do summer hours in my office (work a bit extra Monday-Thursday and you can knock off at 1.00pm on a Friday, thus making every weekend feel like a Bank Holiday - result), everyone treats it as an opportunity to dress down even more than usual. If you're only going to be in work for three and a half hours, you might as well be comfy. Besides, nothing ever happens on a Friday, right? Wrong! On this particular Friday, I get half an hour's notice that I am to attend a meeting with two comedy writers. 'That's OK', I think, 'all comedy writers are scruffy men who look like they live in a skip eating just-past-their-sell-by-date pies. No need to impress on the sartorial front, merely on the 'I could do you a perfectly good marketing campaign' front.'



But naturally, God enjoys laughing at me, and supplies me with a comedy writer who is artfully scruffy and has a dazzling smile. I am just scruffy. Gaaaah. There is much irony in the fact that my Friday afternoon is to be spent beautifying myself for a wedding I'm going to - I'm booked in for a facial; to have my eyebrows threaded (I've been avoiding the temptation to pluck them for a whole month, so the upper part of my face now looks like I'm auditioning for the part of the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz - so attractive! So polished!) and to have my hair blow-dried (my hair is thus on day 3 post-wash, and looking, well, skanky wouldn't be too strong a word). I laugh over-loudly at the comedy writer's jokes (even if they're not jokes, just stuff he's saying - mortifying), gaze at his dazzling smile and curse Rule 3.4 as I contemplate my choice of my least flattering or stylish pair of jeans, my most shapeless black top and my navy Converse, which don't really go with either item, but which are... comfy.



Damn you, Rule 3.4, for being right! Is there any way I can email the Comedy Writer a photo of me taken at the wedding, sporting the kind of makeover that makes family members cry with joy on Ten Years Younger, with the message, 'This is what I usually look like, by the way, I was just trying to put you at ease when you came in for our meeting'? Yes, that's a great idea, if I want him to think of me as deranged, as well as a girl who's been cross-bred with a Hobbit...