Ask a kid what they want to be when they grow up and nine times out of ten you’ll get one of a handful possible answers. Astronaut. Ballerina. Vet. Firefighter. Not me.

At a memorable family gathering when I was four, my beaming father was telling assembled aunts and uncles how when I was old enough I would take over his prized company. Not really understanding the business dynamic I told him I’d stop selling leather (it’s a Turk thing – it was always going to be leather or jewellery) and turn it into a KFC.

He didn’t mention me getting involved with the business again for more than a decade.

Not that it mattered. As soon as I learned how to read I knew what I wanted to be. I wanted to write books. I wanted to make stuff up and have people read it and be as interested in it as I was in the exploits of the Famous Five (I’m still working on that).

I used to write stories, copy them out on pieces of A5 paper, illustrate them and then bind them together with treasury tags. For a while aged about 11 I had a sideline in writing stories where I would parachute my mates into the plot of their dreams – wanting to go steady with Jordan from NKOTB or Alex from Home and Away? With a few hours and a four colour biro, I could sort it.

Around about the same time a kids’ TV show called Press Gang first debuted. As a kids’ show it was tucked away in the middle of the afternoon, but it was as snappily written as anything adults got to watch. With great characters, plotlines ranging from a will-they-won’t-they romance to rival Moonlighting and hardhitting issues du jour (and even pre-jour) including child abuse and post traumatic stress disorder it was amazing. There simply wasn’t anything else like it. And having decided that journalism looked infinitely more fun than writing books (cos you got to go out and ask people stuff rather than sitting at home alone) Press Gang became my obsession.

I taped every episode one after the other on specially bought new videos (no fuzzy sound/picture problems), I read and reread the novelisations, and spent many happy hours cutting out pictures and cast interviews from the latest issue of Look In for a special scrapbook. Which I still have.

I wanted to be Lynda Day, editor, with her trendily frizzy hair - my mum would rather shave my hair off completely than let me have a perm - and funky cardigans (it was 1989). She was running a newspaper, had a sassy comment for every occasion and a gorgeous big lipped American called Spike in a battered leather jacket (the obsession with well made leather clothes is a genetic thing) to flirt with. Who wouldn’t want to be her?

Now thanks to the joys of Blogger this post has probably already given RSI to anyone patient enough to scroll down all this way. But I had to start at the beginning. Because the significance of what comes next is put into context.

On Saturday night I met Dexter Fletcher. Yep. Spike Thompson. He of my pre-teen fantasties, whose pictures shared wall space with my Rick Astley and Wil Wheaton posters. I’m still smiling now. And it’s all thanks to a very forceful friend. Because as soon as I saw him I was a wibbly heap of incoherent hormones in a way I haven’t been my entire adult life.

We’d travelled down to London for a girlie weekend – meals out, shopping, trip on the London Eye, boat cruise along the Thames and the last show in the When Harry Met Sally run with Molly Ringwald and Michael Landes as the leads.

The show was good, better paced and funnier than when I’d seen it previously (with Luke Perry and Alyson Hannigan) and Dexter was very funny indeed, (biased, moi?) while dusting off his American accent.

At the end of the show we headed off to the stage door (what’s a bit of stalking between friends?) but as soon as we got there and I saw him up close I got the wibbles. It was the oddest thing. I’ve met famous people before, and in the course of work I’ve even interviewed a few one to one. But even talking to Jack Straw during the height of the Hutton saga last summer left me less flustered than seeing the lovely Dex.

I am quite chatty and somehow when I’m nervous the part of my brain that self-censors what I’m saying seems to cut out. The last time I’d been even remotely excited as this about meeting someone I ended up telling Brian Thompson (Buffy and X-Files actor) that I had a mono-brow which needed regular plucking. After I’d been talking to him for about 20 seconds. [It makes more sense than it sounds. He asked where my name came from, I said it was Turkish, he said I didn’t look Turkish, I explained it’s because I plucked my Turkish style monobrow… Who I am trying to kid? It was hideous]

So after hyperventilating in the corner at the view of my teenage lust object I decided it was better not to talk to him then talk to him, make an arse of myself and end up feeling horrified forever. Much to the consternation of my long-suffering friend. Luckily she turned into a stern yet decisive goddess, shoving me towards the front of the queue where I could get him to sign the cover of my Press Gang season 1 DVD. (No signing of the programme for me. I was in full-on geek mode, do you understand now?)

I got the sleeve signed, he was lovely, funny, sweet and polite. I didn’t say anything stupid in the minute or so we chatted and so I fled away from the door before I did anything to ruin the moment.

But my lovely friend had other ideas. When she got to him to get her programme signed she asked if she could get a photo with him (most of the people were waiting for Molly Ringwald so there wasn’t really a big crush) and then she asked if he’d mind me having my picture taken with him too. He said no, and was patient as I got back through the throng to stand next to him. We chatted some more, I got a bit of a hug and then he wandered off into the night to his end of run party. I’m still smiling about it now.

Meeting your childhood crush is always going to be a risk. When I was 11 and 12 Dexter Fletcher *was* Spike Thompson. If he’d been an arrogant celebrity type it would have ruined it. But it turns out he’s a good actor. And a damn nice guy. Even without the American accent.

Most of my friends think I’m insane. He’s older now, has a few wrinkles and hair more reminiscent of Julia’s than his own old PG style. Comparisons have been drawn (not by me) to Keith Richards. But as far as I’m concerned my crush stands. In fact it might have developed a bit ;)

Then:

Now: .

Definitely a memorable weekend… thanks not only to Dexter but the lovely Nic – now forever known as the pushy goddess ;) :)

Now I suppose I’d best go do some work…