I don't know how many of you read the Times 2 supplement (no need to hide the Daily Mail sheepishly under the breakfast table, I'm not there and I can't see you), but I've discovered Caitlin Moran, who I've previously lauded as the embodiment of all my columnist aspiration and like to stalk round North London parks on quiet afternoons, wrote about Morrisons last week.

And so did I.

"UmmmMM" I hear you all cry, like a year five class finding out Liam copied Candace's write-up on Roman plumbing.

But before you tell teacher on me and I end up in a detention centre for journalistic plagarism, I'm pleading innocent.

I didn't know.

She copied me.

We are but one mind and that mind feeds off the creative inspiration of Holloway Road supermarkets!

Cross my heart and hope to die, stick an economy leek in my eye.

Actually, I can offer up my internal organs for butchery pretty calmly, because I only saw Caitlin's offering yesterday.

Not being able to afford proper papers, I make do with intellectual enrichment nuggets procured from London Lite and the Chris Moyles breakfast show (where Winehousegate rages still – will the suffering never end?) and commandeering my flatmate's copy of Le Monde to point at all the words I remember from GCSE French.

Baguette! Hamster! Le chapeau de mon oncle!

Look everyone, I'm reading it.

Meanwhile, my mum clips out all of Caitlin's columns with pinking shears and sends them to me in a jiffy bag every few weeks, upon which I have an enormous Moran binge.

I gorge myself silly on witticisms and wry observation and things I wish I'd thought to say myself, and to finish off the feast I eat some Morrisons BettaBuy dark chocolate, watch an episode of QI, then fall asleep and dream I'm Clive Anderson.

Who almost certainly doesn't eat Morrisons BettaBuy dark chocolate, of course, which is 25p for a 100g bar and looks like vulcanised rubber.

My personal theory is that they make it entirely from the trimmings of old Wagon Wheels and last year's advent calendar mishapes, stored for 12 months in a cardboard box at Morrison's HQ for that authentic musty taste.

No, Clive Anderson would eat Lindt 85 per cent, definitely.

Ian Hislop might prefer a Walnut Whip, I have yet to decide.

So, yes, to unearth my original point under a heap of balding BBC panellists and confectionery, clearly Caitlin and I have become synchronised.

Our two minds are uniting like one across the distance between Highgate and Crouch End.

And overcoming the slight obstacle of her having no idea who I am.

This isn't the first time recently when it's felt like the universe and I are in some special sort of harmony.

On tracking down my father's obscure present request (when did the giant Toblerone stop being every Dad's ultimate Christmas, birthday and duty-free desire?), I ended up with one sole website on the entire net that seemed to stock it — and then, like something from a straight-to-video thriller, the invoice came with a note saying "like your column in the local rag."

After a few shivery minutes of feeling like Jodie Foster and checking the wardrobes for masked psychopaths, I noticed the company address.

Which was that most obvious of booming retail metropolises — Angmering.

And the lovely Agapanthus Books are getting a plug, partly for being helpful and partly because they now have my address and debit card details.

Then today I saw Jon Snow in Boots, leading me to believe all my celebrity sightings are now going to be festively-themed — I am expecting Noel Edmonds, Holly Willoughby and Freddie Starr to be entering my life at various points in the near future, followed by Roy Chubby Brown and then Hazel Blears at New Year, along with some Alka Seltzer.

Either that, or the universe and Mr Snow are trying to tell me to abandon Winehousegate and watch some proper news for once.

We'll see.