After I was picked up off the floor by some passing tourists I called Dave and told him that it seemed like an OK thing for me to do. I reckon I was fairly cool on the phone and definitely didn't cry, shake or ruin yet another pair of pants.
Before I could get to D-Cragz, though, I had to meet the rest of the talent. And before I could meet the rest of the talent, I had to wait. And wait. And wait. So wait I did, in a room full of proper journalists, some of whom I overheard complaining about how Quantum Of Solace was three hours long. I resisted the urge to get the official BBFC running time of 105 minutes and 58 seconds up on my phone and jam it in their eye, and instead concentrated on trying to look like everyone else, i.e. professional and bored.
But then Lorraine Kelly breezed in, and I could faintly hear the plummy, excitable tones of Lizo Mzimba from the next room, and I realised that I was hopelessly out of my depth around such titans of celebrity interrogating. What if BBC London's Brenda Emmanus turned up as well? I'd have had to leg it before I was found out.
Naomie Harris, Skyfall's Eve, was also charming and stunning, but despite my proximity to her she did not molest me in any way. And while I did manage to squeeze in a couple of questions my concentration was failing because I knew that the next person to sit in her chair, just six inches away from me, would be James Bloody Bond.
And then, very suddenly, there he was. Daniel Craig burst into the room in surprisingly ebullient fashion, considering he apparently can't bear talking to the press. Immaculately decked out in a black suit, pale blue shirt, cream and black tie and an only slightly alarming puffed pocket square, he plonked himself down next to me and the interrogation began. He was in spectacular form, laughing and joking with the assembled hacks, but steadfastly refusing to stroke me no matter how close I subtly edged towards him. At one point I caught him eyeing the cuff of my shirt, no doubt wondering if the weave was that of a hand-tailored Turnbull & Asser, but the question was left unspoken. He was definitely checking me out though.
At one point Daniel forgot who co-wrote Skyfall with Neal Purvis and Robert Wade, so I leapt to his rescue with a slightly high-pitched "John Logan!", for which he was grateful, and I took that to mean that we were now a team. It was me and him against the other ten journos. I proved myself again shortly thereafter when someone expressed surprise that Craig had kept his role in the Olympics opening ceremony a secret from so many for so long. "He's a secret agent!", I said, and turned to him expecting a high-five or a chest-bump or similar. Instead he muttered a mildly embarrassed "yeah, I'm not", and our formidable partnership ended as swiftly as it had begun.
Too few minutes later, Daniel Craig was whisked out of my life by an efficient PR-type and I was left delighted and awed. The encounter had been far less excruciating (though no less nerve-wracking) than The Brosnan Incident, and of the two Bond actors I've now met, Daniel Craig is far and away the one most likely to invite me round for a cocktail one day. All that was left was for me to chat to Sam Mendes (he talked a lot, which took FOREVER to transcribe) and float off down Park Lane to return to normal existence.
If you'd like to read the fruits of my labour, head over to HeyUGuys where all six interviews nestle snugly among exclusive new images from Twilight: Breaking Dawn Part 2 and DVD reviews of shit like Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter.
Meanwhile, I am in the process of girding my loins for the next Bond to cross my path. I'm getting better at this, so by the time I meet Connery he'll be the nervous one and I'll be the one refusing a photo. Watch this space.