MR D.J.S. MITCHELL AND MISS V.E. COREN. The engagement is announced between David, son of Mr and Mrs Ian Mitchell, of Oxford, and Victoria, daughter of Dr Anne Coren and the late Mr Alan Coren, of London.

Curvaceous yummy top-heavy writer and poker champion Victoria Coren is to marry television “personality” cult comedian and writer David Mitchell.

Ms Coren, 38, announced the engagement in The Times’s social and personal pages. The daughter of journalist and broadcaster Alan Coren, she is also the sister of Giles Coren, a columnist for The Times.

In 2006, she won the main event on the European Poker Tour, pocketing £500,000. She has a first-class degree from Oxford University and regularly contributes to the Observer and the BBC.

Mr Mitchell, best known as half of the duo Mitchell and Webb, was first rumoured to be involved with Ms Coren by the Telegraph’s Mandrake column last March. But the couple have largely kept their relationship a secret until now.

I had always fondly believed that “V.C.” and I shared an unspoken understanding, from the days when we would play in her father’s cherry orchard in leafy Cricklewood, north London, that one day she would become Mrs Stainforth.

Alas, she has succumbed to the superficial charm of this Mitchell bloke, forgetting the joy we had in those halcyon days when we flung us on the windy hill and kissed the lovely grass.

Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, “Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . .” “And when we die
All’s over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips,” said I,
“Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!”

“We are Earth’s best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!” we said;
“We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!” . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.

(Rupert Brooke, The Hill)

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