Why?

Because Artesian – a swanky rum joint housed in the ground floor of the recently re-gussified Langham hotel – is the poshest bar in the vicinity of Radio One; and the Cocktail Girl has a date with Scott Mills.

Scott Mills, prime-time DJ, main draw on Radio One's afternoon show, prince of the going-home-time airwaves?

That's the bunny. Scott has a lot going for him. A love of prank phone calls and fake tans, the ability to spew fluent innuendo, a complete lack of interest in football, and a very real appreciation of the merits of Pinot Grigio. If Radio One had a Cocktail er, Boy, it'd be Scott. We were destined to meet sooner or later; I hurried things along a bit by contacting his people and promising I'd make him famous if only he'd come out and share a glass or two with me.

And that worked?

Oddly enough, my friend – it did.

How bizarre.

I got to Artesian a few moments before Scott. It is a right glamorous do, all mirrors and luxe in the classic fancy-London-hotel style, with some oriental pagoda-ish flourishes, which are always nice. The upholstery's a lovely shade of lilac and the free nibbles are dreamy, and all in all I knew I would do well there. As I say, Artesian is very much a rum bar, but I ignored all that and ordered a vodka Martini (which comes unmixed, with its own vermouth spritzer, iced glass and mini vodka bottle and is genuinely fabulous) just as Scott entered the room. Our eyes met across the heads of the other drinkers (a circumspect, hushed, well-groomed combo of hotel residents and upmarket passing trade)…

And?

And he came over, settled himself down next to me on the lilac upholstery, and asked if it'd be OK if he had wine – given that I'm the Cocktail Girl and all. Which – as opening gambits go – is not bad. Reverent. I told him he might indeed have wine, and then I set about assessing the cut of his jib.

Oh dear.

And let me tell you, Scott Mills's jib is entirely adequate. He was considered, amusing, naughty, really quite odd (in the good way), and just the right amount of indiscreet. We talked a lot about David Hasselhoff (Scott became mates with the Hoff after accidentally re-igniting his career as a pop star in the UK. This summer he spent a few days living with him in his LA mansion for a TV documentary; this autumn the Hoff took a tour of the UK with Scott. It's like a celebrity exchange scheme), and a little bit about the pop stars we'd both met, and liked and didn't like. To my delight, we agreed on all of them, the good, the bad, and Björk.

Did you get drunk?

Ish. We certainly discussed drunkenness. I asked him if he boozes as much as his on-air reputation suggests. "Yeah," he said, "but I'm trying to cut down. Wine is evil. I'm 34 and I'm starting to realise I can't do it the way I used to do it." I reassure him that I'm slightly older than him, and he's talking nonsense. He just needs to practise. "The thing is, I do really like drinking," he went on. "I'm better drunk than sober." Me too, Scott. Me too. It's like we're the twins of drunk! Then: "I'm nice, drunk. I don't do anything bad! I don't try and get off with anyone or anything. I'm quiet and friendly," he said.

Oh, I said. Maybe we're not so similar after all.

Please tell me you didn't try and get off with him?

Not really.

Not really?

Meh. OK. Not at all. Scott seemed oddly immune to the CG's considerable charms. Some men are.

How did it all end?

In a reasonably civilised way. I switched from the DIY martinis to a decent dry white before things got too horribly messy; and Mills was mindful of the fact that he needed to be in reasonable shape by the time his next show started, at 4pm the following afternoon. I even managed to ask him some sensible questions about his long-term ambitions. (He is ambitious; he wouldn't mind the breakfast slot if it were ever offered him, though it doesn't look like Chris Moyles is going anywhere fast… and he'd like to see the Hoff in a decent relationship, but he suspects he's looking for love in the wrongest places imaginable currently.) Nonetheless, I think we were both a little bleary by the end of the night; and I'm glad about that. Something would have gone horribly wrong if either of us had been sober. I'm not sure our reputations would have recovered.

Artesian at the Langham, London W1, 020 7636 1000.