We had a plan, my friend Mand and I. Inspired by Jamie Oliver's work with disadvantaged young people, we had written a song on the guitar about the celebrity chef. It's not as if we thought it was good enough to be sung by Brian Kennedy in the Eurovision song contest or anything, but it came from the heart.
We knew Jamie would love our unique musical take on his Fifteen restaurant, where 15 of the trainee chefs who work there are troubled youths who haven't been given the best breaks in life. The first bit of the plan was to go to London and have a meal at his restaurant.
The rest of the plan was equally simple, even if it depended entirely on Jamie being in the restaurant on the night we chose to visit. We had faith, though. You have to when you are planning a stalking escapade, however benign it may be. Our plan dictated that we would go there and that Jamie would be having dinner a few tables from us. We wouldn't disturb him during his meal - what do you take us for? - but later, when he was kissing friends goodbye and walking towards the door, we would say "Jamie, can we have a quick word?" and he would stop, intrigued by these two Irish girls and their guitar.
The details are a little sketchy from here on in, but going by the plan we would sing him our song - "Jamie Oliver's on the TV / What has that got to do with me? / Monosodium Satellite makes him the Dish of the Day" and so on - and he would perhaps invite us back to meet Jools and the kids, or take us for a spin on his Vespa, or show us how to make a really pukka fish-finger sandwich.
In turn, we'd tell him how incredible he was for trying to make a difference in the world when he could have just sat back and watched his bank account explode. We'd become friends, he'd stay over on any future business trips to Dublin and in years to come we would laugh about how the song brought us all together.
That was the plan. And it might have happened exactly like that if my boyfriend had not redeemed himself utterly in the Christmas-present department by buying us a trip on the Orient Express, something I've wanted ever since developing a brief and inexplicable teenage obsession with Agatha Christie. The present was a day trip around Kent on the world's most luxurious train - more next week on that adventure - so we decided to combine it with a few days in London.
The boyfriend having recently become a bit of an amateur dessert chef, with Jamie's tiramisu being a speciality, I rang Fifteen thinking I'd be laughed off the phone when I tried to book at such short notice. Incredibly, they had a table free in the main restaurant for the tasting menu, which I duly booked.
As we rolled up in a cab, the only expectations I had - Mand being back in Dublin with the guitar - concerned the food. I could write a whole other column about the tender pork shoulder with anchovy and pistachio, the yellow beetroot salad and the disturbingly beautiful venison raviolo, but I'll just tell you, in case you hadn't guessed, that we liked the food very much.
I think it was around the time of the sea-bass course that we heard someone whisper "Jamie is in the building".
I kept it together at this point, thinking he was probably doing a spot of paperwork in a back office. A few minutes later I happened to glance down the restaurant and see his unmistakeable crop of dirty-blond hair. I don't mind telling you, I nearly choked on my scallops.
Here's what happened: I didn't disturb him during dinner - what do you take me for? - but when he got up to kiss his friends goodbye, I said "Jamie, could we have a quick word?" as he made his way towards the exit. He came over, and I told him how amazing I thought he was, giving something back when he could have just been selfish in terms of his career. He thanked me and said that maybe he would open a Fifteen in Ireland, and I said that was a great idea. Then my boyfriend, usually the shy-and-retiring type, decided to tell him about his success with the tiramisu recipe, and wondered whether it was okay that he hadn't been able to find vanilla pods and used essence instead. "It's fine, mate," said Jamie. "The trick is to leave it in the fridge as long as you can." Culinary tips swopped, I asked if I could get a picture taken. He looks gorgeous. I look like a grinning loon.
The moment was over. We said our goodbyes, me knowing in my heart that this was not the time to start singing the Jamie song. That a ride on his Vespa was out of the question. But, to paraphrase the A-Team, I love it when a plan kind of comes together.