Otherwise Engaged

Oh, how could he? How could he keep me dangling for years, practically as long as this very blog has been in existence, no less, letting me believe that there was a chance, that I could keep on hoping, that if only I laughed enthusiastically enough at his jokes and talked him up to all my friends, he'd notice me, ask me out and then marry me, thus completing my odyssey?

Only to dash my poor heart into tiny pieces on the stone-flagged kitchen floor of reality by ANNOUNCING HE'S GOT ENGAGED TO SOMEONE ELSE. IN THE PAGES OF THE BLOODY TIMES, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE. DO YOU WANT TO HUMILIATE ME ON A NATIONAL SCALE, YOU SWINE?

Yes, David Mitchell - my comedy husband - is a cad of the first order. As long-term readers may remember, not only did he render me a tedious, mute numpty on the one occasion at which we met (by, um, tricking me into ordering a glass of water when he asked what I'd like to drink? Yes, that's definitely what happened), but he has also chosen to have a totally under the radar (other than to telly and newspaper types, presumably) relationship with fellow telly regular and Observer columnist Victoria Coren. To whom he is now engaged.

What chance did I have? They say [include random statistic of your choice here] percent of people meet at work. Not only do they both write for the Observer - which no doubt affords at least a drink together at the office Christmas party, as I presume they actually write from home, in their pyjamas (just as I currently am - oh, the cruel irony) - but they're both regular fixtures on panel shows, being funny, behind a selection of desks, playing for points. Together. 'Work' doesn't just mean an office, you know. That's only for us plebs.

I was *this close*. One of my friends is going to be working on his book later on in the year. (Launch party! Surely I could redeem myself at that?) I was getting used to the beard. (Ugh, beards - why are so many otherwise attractive, nice young men sporting beards these days? Is shaving really that much of a hassle? I don't understand why they all want to look so much like a dad from the late '70s - and 20 years older than they actually are in the process). I even moved back to London to be closer to him.

All to no avail. Ah well. I have come up with a new plan. Given that the only chaps I seem to come across these days weren't even born when I was doing my A-levels, I have decided to go full cougar and focus my attentions on someone altogether younger. I am playing the long game, marriage-wise. Yes, I am now going to start stalking trying to track down a junior, ganglier, marginally less beardy version of Mr Mitchell. I've stood across a crowded room from him at last year's Edinburgh Festival, so we're practically going out already.

Jack Whitehall, prep yourself for the attentions of a ginger, speccy girl who's old enough to be your mum. You will be mine.