FORGET HIM? NEVER by an Aussie fan Click Bobby's pic for audio

Some would call it serendipity.

I'm standing aimlessly in the foyer with my neck craned, watching one of those little glass-bubble elevators glide towards the top of the casino's atrium. My husband and friends chat quietly nearby.

The concert ended 40 minutes ago but strains of Volare still ring in my ears. I'm high on post-show euphoria. Discreetly high, in my opinion. Modestly, demurely, quietly high, as befits a woman of my maturity.

Several people stroll past. I'm still mesmerized by the elevator, and contemplating taking a ride so I can see the view from the top. But something stirs my senses. I sniff. Hmmmm - aftershave. And a good one at that. I swivel on my high-heeled boots and there he is. A few feet away. No longer in his tuxedo on stage with his orchestra. But almost sans entourage, wearing casual clobber, right here in the foyer of the Burswood Casino.

51-year-old-Me nonchalantly smoothes my (new) dark blue rib-knitted ankle-length fringed skirt and adjusts the polo neck of my (new) pale blue long-line mohair sweater and quavers slightly on my (new) high-heeled black leather excruciatingly uncomfortable ankle boots.

Genteel-Me, Bashful-Me, the Me that really should be wearing glasses but can do without them at a pinch especially if I'm looking at something I really want to see, remains riveted to the spot. I try to speak, but the words get stuck in my throat.

Seconds later, up they come - those words. "Oh my gosh, it's Bobby," I bellow. My husband and friends turn, astonished. Bobby also spins around (alarmed?). He catches my eye. I gaze back. Across a crowded room? No, as luck would have it - an almost deserted one.

Yes!!

Suddenly, 51-year-old-Me is 15 again. I'm off, striding - well, running, actually - towards him. Bobby observes my approach warily. He holds out his hand. Is it to shake mine, or just to protect himself? No matter, I grab it.

"Hi, I'm ... I'm ... ... ..." Golly, who am I? I stutter. I stammer. I bite my lip. Finally, I blurt out my name. He smiles. Inside my head, 51-year-old-Me begins an intelligent conversation. But on the outside, 15-year-old-Me can only babble. I finish by telling him about us. About The Lively Set.

Bobby is puzzled, but polite. "The Lively Set?" he queries. "Ah ... ?"

"Livelyset-dot-net. It's a website," I quip proudly, adding: "The name's taken from a James Darren movie."

And then it happens. It is a defining moment in our relationship.

"Ah yes, James Darren," he responds. "From Philadelphia. A very dear friend of mine."

Well, what can I say? Suddenly, I'm not 15 any more. I'm 12. Here I am in Burswood Casino, Western Australia, talking to Bobby Rydell, not only one of the greatest performers on the planet, but a self-confessed "dear friend of" James Darren. Moondoggie. The love of my teenaged life.

Goodbye cruel world!

My knees weaken. Suddenly, we're joined by two other people. Strangers. (Do I detect a look of relief on Bobby's face? Nah!) One of them hands him a pen and paper. While he's signing, I have an epiphany. Gosh, what a good idea, I muse. An autograph.

I scrabble in my bag and pull out my notepad. Before he can make an escape, I thrust it into his hand. Biro poised, he glances at me quizzically. "Who shall I ...?"

Make it out to? Is that what you mean, Bobby? Who should you make the autograph out to? I give him my name again, this time without more than 15 seconds' delay. Then, inspired, I change my mind.

"The Lively Set," I declare. "Could you please make it out to The Lively Set." Bobby's friends, who I hadn't noticed earlier, roll their eyes. Bobby just sighs - and signs. He hands the pad back to me.

It's then that I excel myself. I muster some composure and say something really profound. Something studied. Something cerebral. Something like: "You're an angel, mate".

Bobby pauses, stares at me for what seems like quite a long time, and opens his mouth to respond. Then, clearly overcome, he nods, smiles sweetly, and walks away.

At this moment I'm pretty pleased with myself. I think I've finally made an impact. After all, it's one of those rare defining moments in time.

Well, from where I'm standing it is. Maybe he won't remember me, but the reverse certainly doesn't apply. After all, he is Bobby Rydell - and a dear friend of Moondoggie's.

Forget him? Never.