I could tell the attractive young boy, touted by his record company as being the next Justin Timberlake, was disappointed.

He was disappointed that the magazine journalist writing a feature on the new up-and-coming young people was an old unattractive woman. I could tell from the moment I walked through the door of the hotel, where his PR people had decided we would meet.

While I cast an approving, Germaine Greer style, glance at his tanned limbs and blissfully wrinkle free face, he looked at me as if I was a boring friend of his mother's, which, as Sara kindly pointed out to me later, I was old enough to be.

I still can't quite fathom where the last ten years went to and often mistakenly find myself thinking I am the same age as twentysomethings and coming out with phrases such as "We went to the same college, perhaps we met then? I was there in 1985."

To which they reply that they left in 1992, putting me firmly in my ahhmmm-something place.

Anyway, boy in question is not someone I've ever heard of but is apparently in the process of recording his debut album, from which will be released a debut single and, when he hits the charts, or more importantly the magazine stands, will make him the object of every teenage girl in the world's desires and cause Justin to fade into twentysomething obscurity.

When he finds himself in this position, Justin will probably feel like I did as I tried to conduct interview while interviewee appeared to give his monosyllabic replies to a mirror on the wall, opposite where he was sitting.

He obviously found me so old and hideous that he couldn't bear to look at me and, instead, preferred to feast his eyes on his own reflection.

Fortunately, for my self-esteem and sanity, the next big celebrity chef and writer were both charming polite teenagers, full of at least well-acted admiration for my own writing and life, whereas singing boy was just full of scorn. So, I couldn't help but wind him up.

When to my "What would you call your style of music?" he replied, "You can't, like, put a label, like, on it. It's totally, like, unique, like ..." I couldn't help asking if he, like, didn't feel he was part of a generation in which it was impossible to claim anything was new or unique, since everything had ultimately been done before.

Choosing to ignore me, he went on to tell me that his music was "totally, like, moving. Some of it makes you want to get up and go, like, and some is really, like, sad and moving, like ..."

"Like Mary Poppins," I interjected, since as he obviously thought I was not worth talking to anyway I saw no point in trying to pretend my cultural reverence points these days were anything other than Cbeebies and children's videos.

"A Spoonful of Sugar is an uplifting song, with a hopeful message, whereas Feed The Birds is an indictment of society which moves you to tears."

"Is she for real?" said the singing boy, still looking at the mirror but obviously addressing his minder, who jumped to his aid.

"I think the point we're trying to make here," she said, abusing the Royal We, "is that this album is full of surprises and displays an incredible musical range. It reflects the whole spectrum of issues which have to be dealt with, using a range of musical styles."

"Like Chitty Chitty Bang Bang," I heard myself saying, referring to another of Rugrats' favourite musical bags which, by osmosis, has become own most easily accessible musical reference point.

"Which deals with single parenthood, paedophilia and xenophobia, using a range of musical styles."

It was at this point that singing boy's minder decided our time was up. "I think you've probably got enough for you piece," she told me, showing me to the door and closing it behind me but not quite fast enough to prevent my ears form burning.

From within I heard one last gem from wonderboy: "Let's hope the next interviewer's not some middle-aged, like, freak ..."