Not such a Homeric Odyssey after all...

Well, well, well - clearly I'm going to have to start believing in The Secret, or somesuch, because no sooner have I asked the Universe to deliver me David Mitchell, than the Universe... delivers me David Mitchell. I forwarded my friend Mary the Caitlin Moran article about what an uphill battle it is being a single girl about town when you're in your 30s. 'I met David Mitchell, for he is the flatmate of Robbie, who was at the drinks on Thursday [Mary had a birthday do in a pub, which I went to last week]. DM is a lot of fun – he should totally be your husband!', she replied. WHAT? How is that possible? That I am so few degrees of separation from D. Mitchell Esq? Extraordinary. She then went on to say that Robbie was having a book launch on Thursday, which DM was bound to be at, so did I want to go?

Much twittering (no, not that kind) in the office and discussion about whether this was 'stalky' or not. It was decided not. (Of course.) Perfectly reasonable that I should turn up to a launch party, be introduced by a mutual friend and then get on famously with the object of my affections. As long as I didn't get drunk and accidentally tell him I'd written a number of blogs about him, all would be fine.

The day, however, did not start auspiciously. I got up, thinking that I would spend some time crafting both hair and make-up in order to Look My Best (see Rule 3.4 of Being Single). I wandered casually into the bathroom and put on the shower. Splutter. Cough. Distinct lack of water. Eh? I tried the sink. Nada. The kitchen sink? Drier than the Kalahari. Oh God, what manner of fuckery was this? Had our water supply been shut off for some reason and no-one had told me? Were the Bachelor Gods smiting me in advance for the temerity I was showing in gate-crashing a party specifically to try to talk to one of their subjects? Gah. I unleashed some choice swearwords, and prepared to hit the gym for the first time in many months. Just to use the showers, mind.

I arrived at work to a barrage of questions: was I going to change my shoes before the party (yes, although God knows, men never notice your shoes unless they're gay); what was my opening line going to be (umm, 'They're not really going to close down The Observer, are they? It's the only decent Sunday paper available!' would probably go down OK? Topical and could segue into 'I really love your column!', etc); was I going to try to snog him (no! NO. God, no - how quickly would that make him totally head for the hills? Also, being that drunk would be a very bad idea indeed and would doubtless result in me falling over and taking half the rest of the bar with me, given the slightly perilous heels I was planning on wearing. Not a good first impression.)

My main worry was that I was going to get introduced to him, throw a glass of wine down his front and then turn into the female equivalent of Hugh Grant, swear profusely, blush madly and then tell him I’d written a blog about him, then run away crying. Leaving him thinking, ‘Who’s that mental girl? I’m glad I never have to see her again’.

So, with not a small amount of trepidation, I set off, fully frocked-and-heeled up, into yet another monsoon of biblical proportions. I had an umbrella, but had foolishly not brought a jacket. Curse these British 'summers'! Mary and I managed to get to the party without looking too much like drowned rats. The venue was very packed and very noisy. We established ourselves at the bar, and got introduced to two blokes by the author’s extremely enthusiastic agent. One of them immediately did a runner. The other took a shine to Mary, which was unfortunate, as he looked like the kind of man you wouldn't even want to share a bus stop with, let alone a drink (still wearing what can only be described as ‘a windcheater’, despite the fact that the bar was about 100 degrees; sweaty; comb-over hair; dodgy specs) and was one of those men who invades your personal space, then bores you to a slow death. We eventually shook him off. We drank several drinks, whilst keeping an eager eye out for DM. Eventually, we had news that he was at the other end of the bar. We were off!

We stationed ourselves carefully within his eyeline, and waited for him to come within range, much like a pair of hungry lionesses eyeing up a baby antelope. Finally, he was on his own! ‘GO!’ I shouted at Mary, who sprung into action, tapping him on the arm and engaging him in conversation. She was a pro. After much advice from all my friends to 'be yourself', and even 'be your wonderful, beautiful self' from my old flatmate (aww!), I sadly decided that the self that I would present was in fact my 18 year-old one: gauche, smiling like a simpleton and not really saying anything. It’s kind of difficult when the bar is so loud that most of the conversation involves one person saying, ‘What? Sorry?’, you repeat yourself three times and then the situation is reversed.

So, on the strength of this encounter, I won’t be marrying David Mitchell. He seems perfectly nice, and was quite smiley (although his look of abject horror when I asked for a glass of water when he offered me a drink led me to think that strategic teetotalism wasn't perhaps my wisest move after all), but Mary was finding it hard work trying to keep a conversation going with him, despite the fact that she's brilliantly funny, very cool and incredibly pretty. So he’s either not good at parties, not good with people he doesn’t really know, or just not good at conversation full stop. Oh well, I achieved my aim of speaking to him, rather than hiding in a corner and repeatedly wibbling, 'Oh God, I can't', so on that front it was a success. But equally, I'm rather sad that my Odyssey has ended so quickly, and with a somewhat damp squib-ish result (and with me having a total personality failure). On the plus side, if it's that easy to get the Universe to deliver celebrity men to your door, who can I target next? Suggestions on the back of a Peep Show script.