In general I agree that one should never meet one idols - invariably they turn out to be dickheads. This isn't always the case - I met Ian McShane once and he was very sweet (and very short); I also met Dean Windass, whose goal against Yeovil had won me some cash, and despite the fact the mighty City had just won all thanks to him and here was a young woman offering to buy him a drink with her windfall, he still glared and grunted then stomped off. I wouldn't necessarily rate either as an "idol", but, well, it's all good practice.

Then a few weeks ago, purely by chance, I met Alan Bennett! I can't even begin to to sum up in normal language how amazing this is. I have a sort of vague hierarchy of people I admire, which is a somewhat eclectic mix featuring the likes of Michael Palin, Desmond Tutu and Morrissey. But Alan Bennett would probably be right at the top.

I've loved Alan Bennett since I was a very small child. Being a good Northerner and the daughter of one good Northerner (and one good Southerner with very well honed literary tastes) one of the things I remember as a very small child is listening to Alan Bennett reading the Winnie the Pooh stories in that perfect and unique voice of his. Thus begun a sort of addiction.


Anyhow, having devoured everything of his I could the older I got, I eventually wrote to him a few years ago after my grandmother died. This sounds perhaps a little odd, but I'd just read "Untold Stories" and a lot of the things he wrote about his mum and her dementia rang true, so I wrote to say thank you, and to share a little piece of quintessentially Northern humour (when we drew up to meet the hearse on the day of the funeral my dad somewhat bizarrely asked the undertaker "How's business?" and he replied "Oh great! We've had two new ones come in last night!" Then we buried by granny.) It never occurred to me he'd write back, but he did - a little postcard thanking me for the letter, and including a brief anecdote about Thora Hird. Apparently he does this, and I think that's lovely. Anyway, I was coming home from work unusually early - about 4.30 - and was on the tube - also unusual. I was plugged into my iPod and happily dousing myself in a spot of Morrissey when I glanced down the carriage and most probably physically jumped in my seat when I saw him sitting a few seats away. I agonised very brielfy about leaping up and saying hello, because he was engrossed in the Guardian (I was relieved to see he reads the Guardian) and didn't give the air of someone who wanted to be disturbed. Rightly or wrongly, I decided I couldn't pass up on the opportunity to say hello, so I sidled up to him and apologetically said that he'd written to me a few years ago and that I wanted to say thank you.

"What did you write to me about?"

I told him and he smiled politely - I suspect he didn't remember. So I elaborated, told him my grandma was from Bradford, and that his stories rang nostaglic bells with our family.

"Are you from Bradford?"

Sort of, I said, but I'd moved. I wasn't really from anywhere...

He sympathised, and we talked a little bit about accents, because both our accents were considerably more Northern by this part of the conversation than they had been at the beginning. We don't fit anywhere - Southerners think we're Northern, and Northerners think we're Dead Posh.

I got off at Goodge Street, which wasn't my stop but I didn't want to disturb him any longer, but I hope the conversation didn't irritate him. He came across as a truly lovely, quiet and self-effacing sort of person who liked anonymity, but I hope, in this instance, being recognised was a pleasure and not a trial, and that he understood how appreciated and admired as he is by an awful lot of people, it's just I happened to be the person with few enough inhibitions to toddle up and say so.