Wright On! - a wry look at life, with Shelley Wright

FOR the past few years I have followed Robbie Williams' every move. I have watched him wiggle his tasty bum in Take That, trip the light fantastic with Tom Jones and blow up like an over-inflated balloon when a heady diet of drink and drugs took its toll.

I've defended him through thick and thin, no matter what dodgy looking outfit or make up he has donned, and cheered his recent music success despite the fact I'm not over-struck on some of his tunes.

But more importantly I have sat back and calmly watched him date and dump a string of gorgeous women without so much as the blink of an eye. I didn't even bother when he got engaged.

And why? Because I feel sure we're destined to be together, and while fate has a hand in this, none of those other girls will ever stand a chance. I feel quietly confident that at some point Robbie will realise this too.

The fact he is currently spending his time flitting undecidedly between All Saint Nicole Appleton and Irish beauty Andrea Corr only serves to convince me he's just biding his time until he meets his Miss Wright.

And it will happen you know, I'm convinced of that, but then so is every other female I know. You only have to mention his name in this office to spark a major debate and let me tell you, one colleague is so smitten by the cheeky Port Vale fan that she is even considering putting posters of him up on her wall.

Quite sad when you're 28, I think you'll agree - not to mention the potential embarrassment if you ever get to take him home.

I don't know what it is about him. Well, actually, I do. I've always known he was the one for me after our eyes met as he gazed from a Smash Hits pin up in 1991 and, as far as I'm concerned, it was only a cruel twist of fate that kept us apart a couple of years ago at a Manchester gig.

He actually left the band the week before they took to the stage, you see, but he wasn't to know I was there, was he?

We could be married with two kids by now as well. Drat.

And from where I'm standing, a weekend lovenest in the Rossendale Valley could be just what Robbie needs. You see, I'm not just thinking of myself here, I've got it all worked out.

Nights out in Haslingden singing along to his own songs on the karaoke and looking relatively sober compared to everyone else - what more could a guy want? Andrea Corr? Nicole Appleton? Surely not.

My friends think I'm completely mad, not to mention a tad unrealistic, and conveniently forget the fact they've actually set their sights on the likes of Joe Longthorne and Prince Naseem.

And my colleagues at work are also enjoying the daily Robbiewatch updates courtesy of the newspapers, which seem more obsessed with him than I am and feature even the smallest snippet of news. I let the others have their fun though because they're in love with the likes of Isla Fisher, Susan Sarandon and Jason McAteer and obviously need all the help they can get.

Then there's my future sister-in-law, who is, as we speak, planning a double date with me, Robbie and his former Take That sparring partner Gary Barlow - although I don't think they get on anymore and, anyway, she'll be married within weeks.

But my brother is undoubtedly excited at the thought of a celebrity guest at his wedding do and is currently learning Angels on the guitar, hoping he and Robbie can do a turn.

"Join in when you're ready Robbie!" he announced on Sunday while sat on a beanbag practising the chords. I really couldn't have put it better myself.

Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.