Some people are obsessed with the world of high fashion. Others are obsessed with collecting rare records or obscure comics. Heaven knows there’s even a massive following for shows like Star Trek. My life’s greatest passion lies with a singer named Steven Patrick Morrissey.

I am an accountant by profession. I love numbers. I like balance and order. I strive for stringent processes. I have a relatively conservative upkeep, and others might think that I clip recipes out of magazines for some excitement in life. Little does anyone know that I’m a raving, swooning fan with arms flailing in the air, at the front row of every Morrissey concert.

My fanaticism started at the age of 15. Popping a cassette tape made for me by a friend into my Walkman, I heard Morrissey’s angelic voice for the first time. He sings so honestly, about life, love, death, and London. He is clever, witty and oh-so typically British with his tongue-in-cheek lyrics. And there the love affair began.

Thirteen years later, things haven’t changed much. I line up at the record store the day his new album is released. I execute intricately detailed plans to get the best tickets at his concerts (I am an accountant, after all). I’ve flown to London, England, just to watch His Majesty perform at the Royal Albert Hall. There are no limits to what I’ll do for Morrissey.

Morrissey concerts deserve an explanation, if that’s possible. Grown men and women, swooning, and singing shamelessly at the top of their lungs to his songs. Fans, climbing onto the stage during concerts to hand the great man some flowers, or give him a hug. Fans passing handwritten letters, hoping they will be read. He once said at a concert, "Welcome to the Church of Morrissey." It couldn’t have been put more perfectly.

My lyrical hero is currently on a North American tour. Unsurprisingly, I decided to fly to New York City to watch him at a couple of concerts at Radio City Music Hall. There, I paid what some would call a ridiculous sum of money for front row tickets. I decided then that I should write my idol a letter, to pass along during the concert. Something short and sweet about how his music has meant the world to my life. I put some written words on paper, scrawled, "Morrissey" across the top with shaky hands, and successfully passed him the letter during one of his songs. He shook my hand, and placed the letter carefully in his pocket.

Morrissey was due to play Toronto a couple of days later. I went walking down the posh Yorkville Avenue on Thanksgiving Monday, in hopes of "running into" the man. I was fully armed with some paraphernalia to be signed, a camera and a permanent marker. A girl has to be prepared for the greatest meeting of her life.

My dream quickly came true. Morrissey, surrounded by his "people," was walking down the street in my direction. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The meeting was short, but wonderful. He artfully signed my posters. I thanked him profusely. But just before he walked away, I said, "Morrissey -- it’s so wonderful to meet you. My name is Mona." He looked slightly puzzled, and smiled a little. "I got your note," he said, and walked away. Those last words stained a permanent smile on my face.

The next night, he played the Hummingbird Centre in Toronto. Finally, the hero visits my hometown. Sure enough, I found myself pressed against the front of the stage. Screaming fans surrounding me, chanting, "Morrissey-Morrissey-Morrissey" in British football-style song. Fans clinging steadfastly to his hand when he reached into the crowd.

One by one, some fans began to climb the stage in order to embrace the man during the concert. I realized then, that the moment had come. Twenty-eight years of waiting was over. I decided to wash the conservative accountant out of my hair, brave the security guards, and climb the stage to greet Morrissey.

I hoisted myself onto the stage and began crawling towards him. I stood up and grabbed his hand for a warm shake. He gave me an odd smile and a look of familiarity. As I was being whisked away by security (feeling like a bit of a rock-star myself), I heard him say, "That was Mona," into the microphone. At that moment, the word "fulfilment" would have been an understatement. My heart was truly full.

Everyone is fanatic about something. Even those who look least likely. Even accountants like me.