My Failed Seduction of Elliot Perlman

I couldn't have been more excited. There, on the panel at the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival, were the two great literary loves of my life - Mark Dapin and Elliot Perlman.

Mark I already know. This is because I stalked him at a previous Jewish writers function, declaring my love for his columns and his tattoos, excitedly showing him examples of my columns and tattoos, and generally becoming a nuisance for the next year or so until he agreed to be my friend. He is the funniest man I know, and quite stunningly talented, and I adore him.

Elliot I had never met, though his book 'Seven Types of Ambiguity' is among my all time favorite. He spoke in soothing, caramel tones of war and responsibility, with such cerebral gravitas I was ready to lie down before him with my legs in the air. The curly brown hair, chiseled features and twinkly eyes didn't hurt, either.

Poor Elliot. All he wanted to do was write books.

After the session I proceeded to the book signing area with about 20,000 of his and Mark's other fans - bizarrely, nearly all of them female. I chatted to Mark, whose hat was cutting off the circulation to his head, and waited for my chance to sit on Elliot's knee talk to Mr Perlman.

The time came. And here, for your reading pleasure, are just a few snippets of the actual, genuine, conversation I had with my literary idol:

Me: You are my fantasy man.
Elliot: Um... oh.

Me: Are you on Twitter?
Elliot: No, I don't know how to work it. I need to learn.
Me: I'm giving a course on Twitter next Tuesday, come along, I'll get you in for free!
Elliot: Sadly I'm going back to Melbourne tomorrow.
Me: That's okay, I'll come to your hotel room and give you a private lesson!

Me: Do you know any Sackvilles in Melbourne?
Elliot: I know many. I know Lindi Sackville.
Me: She's my cousin!
Elliot: I used to have a crush on Lindi at school.
Me: Well now you can transfer that crush to me!
Elliot: Um.. aren't you married?
Me: Make me an offer and I don't have to be!

All in all I was devastatingly seductive and practically had Elliot drooling in anticipation of a special, two person book club all of our own.

Except that I wasn't, at all. I was a tragic, middle aged groupie, who had to get home to her husband and kids. Which I did, with my tail between my legs, and a copy of The Street Sweeper clutched in my hands.

It was inscribed 'It was a pleasure to meet you'. And that, my friends, is what I cling to.