In Chris Titley's absence, his column this week is written by Stephen Lewis.

SOME things never go according to plan. There we all were, sitting in the office with the post-election equivalent of a hangover - caused by staying up until 4am to see how big Tony Blair's majority would be - when the telephone went.

Wonder of wonders, it wasn't a failed election candidate asking if he could put a letter in the Evening Press thanking those who had voted him. It wasn't even a well-intentioned woman from York and District Good Fellowship Society wanting to tell us about an important fundraising tombola.

It was a call that sent a thrill of genuine excitement down the spine of every weary hack sitting there wondering whether the post-election day was ever going to end.

Bill Clinton was coming to York!

We all knew he was coming to Harrogate. He was due to give a speech to the Yorkshire International Business Convention - a speech prompted purely by his great and abiding interest in Yorkshire business, naturally, and nothing to do with any form of monetary remuneration.

But now he was coming to York, too. He would be taking time out from his busy schedule to pay an impromptu visit to York Minster - and perhaps even for a brief walkabout afterwards.

There was a scramble of journalists rushing to their feet and clamouring for the attention of the news editor. (OK, perhaps I exaggerate). I won. And so, five minutes later, I found myself rushing from the office, notebook clutched firmly in hand, heading for the Minster.

As I walked, I rehearsed what I would ask the great man. Not that I expected an exclusive one-to-one, though that would have been nice. Instead, I pictured myself shouting above the crowd: "Mr Clinton! Bill! What did you think of the election result?"

Hopefully, he'd hear, give that famous Clinton grin, and call out a cheerful soundbite or two. He might even come over, seize my hand in a politician's grip, and say: "Glad you asked me that..." before giving me that exclusive interview after all.

My mobile rang. It'll be the news editor, I thought, reminding me to file copy in time for today's final deadline. It was the news editor all right - but instead of asking me for 300 words before noon, the message was altogether drearier.

"It's off."

"What?"

"He's not coming."

"You're kidding. Why the XZYPJXZ:QTLX not!!!!"

"His plane's delayed. He hasn't got time."

The rest of the conversation, as you can imagine, was barely printable in a family newspaper.

Dejectedly, I made my way back to the office and prepared to launch myself into a story about local Tory MPs' views on the Conservative succession. But my heart wasn't in it.

Why? I hear you ask. Bill Clinton wasn't such a great shakes, either as leader or as man, was he? Well, maybe he was and maybe he wasn't. But he was, for eight long years, the most powerful and important man on the planet: the undisputed leader, whether we like it or not, of the free world.

Whatever his personal qualities, greatness inevitably accrues to such a man. And any reporter with journalism in his blood would all but kill for the chance to pop a few questions, however brief and inconsequential, at a man whose word once had the power to move nations.

My close encounter with greatness got me thinking about who, of all the people alive, I'd most like to interview.

Nelson Mandela would be up there. So, oddly enough, would Michael Foot. But there's one man above all others I'd like to have met. A photographer colleague once did meet him and I've been jealous ever since.

It must, I've often thought, have been like meeting Christopher Columbus.

It's Neil Armstrong. If I'd had the chance to interview him, I'd be able to retire a happy man.