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.

I have received excellent news with regard to my Odyssey In Search of David Mitchell. Apparently, he's been on Who Do You Think You Are, http://bit.ly/TvsR3 and has found out that his antecedents were... drum roll... sheep farmers. In Scotland. Hurrah! He is thus as thoroughly down to earth as I assumed he was. Hopefully this means that the manipulative producers of the show will not have managed to make him cry (impoverished sheep farmers - not that tragic?), which seems largely to be their aim each episode. Sometimes I wonder if they choose celebs for WDYTYA purely on the strength of whether people want to see them cry or not (Jeremy Paxman, Chris Moyles - it's a shame Margaret Thatcher's too far gone; she'd be ideal).

The exciting thing from David's point of view, is that, if he were to marry me, he could automatically raise the Mitchell clan several rungs up the society ladder because my antecedents include... drum roll... Joan of Arc. Joan of bloody Arc! I know - seems like the kind of thing that would come out of regression therapy, but I've seen the family tree with my own eyes - in the very dim and distant past, my family dates back to Joanie d's brother. It's long been a nugget of crazy family lore, which we often bring out to amuse and astound, but I was never quite sure if I believed it. However, when I was at home about a year ago, we dug through the giant desk that resides in the corner of the posh sitting room (my parents' house contains both a 'TV room' and a 'drawing room') which is the filing cabinet for all Important Family Paperwork. And there it was, as if by magic. Well, unless someone in the family nicked it a couple of generations back, from a visiting French dignitary, when they were impoverished potato farmers in Ireland.

'All the single ladies! Put your hands up!’ – this article struck several chords and is rather funny… http://bit.ly/fcNpI

It sums up my life exactly. The one time I did go to a singles party, which was organised by some quite well connected people (who worked in films, telly and the like), it was a disaster. It was the usual thing of men skulking in corners, and then regarding you with extreme suspicion if you dared to reverse the natural order and go over and talk to them. All us girls who’d gone along, full of hope, ended up screaming with frustration.

What is wrong with men? Why do they treat you like you're a cross between Margaret Thatcher and Atila the Hun if you try to initiate a conversation with them? You'd think they'd like it - saves them having to make the effort and risk being shot down in flames, but no, they back into corners, give you a look as though you're about to drag them down a sperm bank and demand immediate insemination and then run away, desperate to find an unchallenging 25 year old to chat up instead.

I am, however, finally tempted to do internet dating, as I'm so bored of my entire life at the moment, that even going on rubbish dates might make things more interesting. Just baulking at the idea of a/ writing a profile b/ choosing a photo and c/ worrying that my ego will get dented by nutso blokes who seem good on paper, but less so in person. So I have come up with a top solution: I shall just marry David Mitchell. He seems nice, clever, funny, and is as horrified by the idea of dating as I am. Plus he's been single for 7 years, which is about the length of time since I last tried going out with someone (it's too depressing to work out how long it actually is - plus it's another big tick on the 'pro' side on the 'why David Mitchell should go out with me' list).

The last two blind dates I went on were disastrous. The first guy said he had to leave early (despite our numerous emails pre-date, he'd failed to mention this), because he had to get up at the crack of dawn the next day to go on a hedge-laying course. He claimed he’d already been on a dry stone walling course. I tried to tease him about the fact that he obviously liked to put a lot of barriers up in his life, and he didn’t go for it at all. He wouldn’t even walk me to the tube station! Rude man.

Then I went on one with a guy who’d been married, but his wife had died. That was going fine, till we started talking about the rubbish ‘new generation’ Star Wars films. I went on an extended rant about the final one, saying, ‘I mean, what on earth was the impetus for Anakin Skywalker to go over to the dark side? I mean, God, his girlfriend died, but really’. I realised as it was coming out of my mouth that I should just get my coat and go. I pretended, however, that I didn’t know his wife had died till he made some reference to it later. Needless to say, I didn't hear from him again.

So, David Mitchell. Yes, he looks a bit like a potato, but all men end up looking like that eventually – might as well know what you’re getting from the off. (I, of course, am no Elle MacPherson - I'd say I'm around a 6.5 on a good day.) Plus he’s a posho and my parents would like him, even if he does write for a vaguely leftie paper. Although, I suspect that this whole 'I've given up on dating' thing is a ruse by DM - much like in those Restoration plays, where lotharios were endlessly pretending to be gay so that they weren’t seen as a threat to single or married ladies, and then copped off with all of them, I imagine that poor David now has every woman over the age of 35 throwing herself at him, via Twitter, Facebook, his Observer column's online comments section and every time he nips to the corner shop for a pint of milk and some cheese. (I also imagine that DM has a touch of the Alan Bennetts and spends the time he's not on panel shows and writing comedy sitting at home eating cheese and biscuits).

So here starts my official Odyssey In Search Of David Mitchell. Someone out there must know him - please put me in touch! I'm very happy to have a virtual relationship via email, with very little actual 'dating' at all, thus minimising the pain for both of us. I can finally get my mum to stop worrying about me being single, and you can stop at least half of those women throwing themselves at you by squeaking, 'But I've got a girlfriend!' Everyone's a winner.