Stevie Smith, spinster of the suburbs, preferred not to stir from Palmer's Green. But she turned her uneventful life into wonderful, eccentric copy. Sylvia Smith may not be a great writer but she and Stevie share more than their surname. Sylvia could be Stevie's working-class sister: unmarried, childless, a retired secretary with a similarly deadpan sense of humour who has never moved from London's East End.

At 40, Sylvia took a hard look at her life and concluded she 'hadn't done much with it'. Now at 56, she has written a book about everything that has (and has not) happened to her: Misadventures. There is nothing more cheering than reading about other people's lack of success and I could not put down her unusual, deflated, hilarious book. It deserves to be a best-seller. But, if the rest of her life is anything to go by, it will be a flop.

The book emphasises comic anonymity. This is the story of Anywoman. Jeremy Lewis, a shrewd former publisher, suggests that Sylvia is a mature Helen Fielding, a 'champion of those who seem on the surface at least embattled, defeated and horribly unsuccessful'. But this is missing the point. Sylvia Smith isn't making anything up. She is no Bridget Jones: she is the real thing. Even her goldfish are unlucky. Disliking their boring environs, they leap out of their bowl and stun themselves on the lino. Sylvia is doing the same thing: leaping out of her life and into print.

She shies away from self-description, preferring incident to emotion. Her flat style is catching. Some chapters (each with its own title) are only a paragraph long; they are like matches that refuse to light. She finishes chapters with lines such as: 'Frank married someone else a few years later.' Or: 'Personnel think it would be nicer if they had a younger temp.' I note, too, that Sylvia always gives the exact age of those appearing in each brief instalment, as if age were the key to everything, including disappointment.

The phone call

I am 43. Sylvia is 56.

I tell Sylvia I loved the book. 'Have you read it? she exclaims, astounded. 'I thought it was very funny.' 'Oh good, you're meant to find it funny.' I am surprised by her voice. I had expected a prudish voice to match her behaviour. (She went out with 100 men before she was 25 but all relationships were platonic. She dislikes it when men are too forward. But she talks as if each word might contain a triple entendre. How long would it take to walk to her flat from Leyton tube? 'I don't know. I never use the tube.' She thought the walk might take 'about seven minutes'. I said that would be fine. She said 'Oooh... it wouldn't suit me, it's raining.' I tell her I don't mind a walk. She says 'I've got a hairdryer...'

I go at a brisk pace down Leyton High Road and finally reach Sylvia's front door. I am out of breath but not wet. The walk takes 25 minutes.

The meeting

I am (still) 43. Sylvia is 56.

Sylvia comes to the door in a saffron yellow T-shirt in shiny material. Her trousers are black. 'I made them myself,' she tells me. She is thin and bold with a naughty laugh, like someone gargling down an illicit drink. She could be a 'resting' actress. Her eyes are kohled, her hair quite long. 'Do you want the hairdryer?'

I decline. Sylvia trained as a hairdresser but gave up before completing her apprenticeship. She subsequently attempted to cut a friend's hair but could not get it even and eventually cut almost all of it off.

When did she start writing? 'The idea came into my head when I was 43. I am 56 now. You can make a note I don't look it, if you like.' (She gives one of her incredible laughs at this). Rain is hammering down on the plastic roof of the kitchen and she introduces me to the flat as if it were a close friend. We sit down on her sofa. 'It folds out into a double bed,' she remarks. I look around. It is like being inside a toy box full of pretty trinkets and buffeted toys. 'There are eight bedsits here. I've been in my little studio two and a half years. Do you want some biscuits?'

There was almost no editorial interference with the book. 'I worked very hard, sometimes three hours on one page.' The title is her own. What do her friends think of it? 'I asked this married girlfriend whether she liked it. She said, "Not particularly." Then I asked her if she had found it funny. She said, "No. Not at all." '

Three photographs

There are three framed photographs on a coffee table. The first is of Sylvia as a little girl in a white frock with a forest behind her. 'It is my back garden in Walthamstow,' she explains. She is wearing a huge hat and frowning. 'You look cross,' I say. She puts her glasses on, and stares at the picture: 'No. It's total innocence, isn't it? Look at my big, fat face.' She is critical of her dress, too. 'Look how my dress goes up at the front.'

Second: Gertrude Elizabeth and Walter Smith, her paternal grandparents. They appear miserably awed by the camera. Walter longs to get away. Gertrude wears a black belt that looks uncomfortable. Gertrude's maiden name was Smith, then she married a Smith: 'Miss Smith became Mrs Smith.'

Third: Reginald John Smith, Sylvia's father. She praises his smile (as if it were an achievement at his age). He died a few years ago, at 92, of a 'massive heart attack'. She was recalled from a 'four-day holiday at Ramsgate.' She had to arrange the funeral which was 'awful'. 'But I've spent my life sorting out things.' She says: 'My parents were funny in a way.' One hand flickers like a bird scarer. Had her mother read the book? 'With difficulty, through a magnifying glass. She thinks it is fabulous. She thinks everything I do is fabulous.'

Husbands and other 'h' words

I ask her if she could live her life again, what she would do differently? 'I don't go around thinking of my life,' she says (as if the idea were indecent). Would she describe it as very disappointing? 'No. A bit disappointing.' The love of her life was a Greek boyfriend, Heracles, whom she met in the Café de Paris, off Leicester Square when he was 27 and she was 25. She tells us how to pronounce his name: 'The H is silent. You then say 'error' and join it to the surname of John Cleese the actor and you have the name "Heracles".'Heracles does seem to have been an error. Twenty years after they parted, she found a Christmas card from him on which he had written: 'I remember you and every moment of the quite long time we spent together... ' She realised how much he must have loved her. 'I sat and cried.'

In the book, Sylvia explains she is bad at judging when a melon is ripe. I suggest she may be bad at judging when her romances are ripe too. Did she regret not marrying Heracles? 'No. I had such a traumatic time with him; he had a bad time with me.' Does she wish she had married someone else? 'No. I don't go around looking for a husband.' (This is in the same fastidious tone in which she explained she does not go around thinking about her life.) 'If I meet someone nice I go out with him.' So she would not like a husband? 'No. I don't want one particularly.'

The other boyfriend who lasted was Ali, a Turk. 'I still see Ali but only on a friendly basis.' Her most successful relationships were not with Englishmen. Does she find them boring? 'Yes. It might be because I know them. I've fallen in love with all the foreigners - or most of them... '

Children

Sylvia's grandmother, wearer of the uncomfortable belt, had nine children. She complained to her husband about his attentions and 'would jump down the entire staircase in her house in the early stages of pregnancy in the hope of losing her unborn child'. Sylvia is not sure why anyone wants children. 'One fella I know says he loves his children but they drive him mad. Children can give you a whole lot of grief. The children I see with my friends are so badly behaved, I don't know how they put up with them. I am delighted I haven't got any. Do you have children? You do? Oh well you probably know what that fella was talking about.'

Other lives

If she could choose to be someone else, who would it be? 'Elizabeth Taylor without the illnesses. If it is with the illnesses, forget it. She swelled up with about six double chins. But she certainly lived her life.' What if she could come back as a man? 'Prince Charles without the sadness. He is lovely. He doesn't show his personality but he has a fantastic sense of humour inside there. I saw him on television at a kids' party; he was blowing on makebelieve cups of tea. Just don't ask me about Camilla.'

The Car

Curiously, Sylvia will talk about men but not about her car. It is off the record. Not that anyone should drive off with the wrong idea about it. It is nothing fancy. But she told me where she likes to go in it: 'Usually, at about noon I take myself to Epping market and have a cheap lunch. I thoroughly enjoy a nice little drive. One of my hobbies is shopping. And I like to have a big breakfast in Tescos. And I like to go to charity shops.' She has been unemployed for years. 'I've had nine years off. It has been absolutely lovely. Why would I want to go to work?'

Sylvia's most recent misadventure

'Me and my neighbour kept getting mice. So I bought a kitten called Tommy. He was a beautiful little thing. He was all right for about four days. But he started to put up a fight about everything. And he kept going for my mother's legs. I disposed of him. He was far worse than I had anticipated.

A wave of the handkerchief...

She hopes 'everyone who ever knew me will go out and buy the book and read about themselves'. Would she like to see people she has lost touch with? 'I'd love to see my old friends regardless of whether we fell out. It was probably 50/50...' Has she ever felt self-pity? 'I am not going to answer your question. It is too long a story to go into it. But I am not bitter.' She isn't. Earlier, she caught me sniffing and jumped up to open a glass closet inside which there was a bulk supply of travel-sized paper handkerchiefs. 'Take the packet,' she said. Just now, she is giving them away.

Sylvia's Stories: Two Chapters from 'Misadventures'

1969

Bob

Bob was 30. I was 24. We met at a dance at the Empire ballroom in Leicester Square. We had one date.

Bob invited me to dinner at his flat one Thursday evening and we made arrangements that he would meet me by car at his local underground station.

He cooked an excellent medium rare steak and French fries, served with a dressed salad and a glass of claret.

After our meal we settled in his lounge with the remainder of the wine. I found him to be far too amorous. I turned down his advances and would do no more than kiss him.

At the end of the evening he drove me back to the Tube and suggested I meet him there the following Thursday, but this time with a pound of sausages as he would have no time for shopping.

The next Thursday I arrived at the underground station at the appointed hour but there was no Bob. After waiting 40 minutes and not knowing exactly where he lived and still there was no Bob, I went home, taking my sausages with me.

1981

The Indian Shopkeeper

He was short and middle-aged. I was 36

I saw a beautiful green handbag in the window of an east London leatherware shop. But without its price tag. I entered the shop and asked the Indian shopkeeper how much it cost. He reached for the bag and passed it to me, saying: 'This is an excellent handbag in a very soft leather that I imported from France and I want £75 for it.' It was much more than I had expected and I told him so. He showed me various cheaper bags but I didn't like any and left the shop.

I walked along the High Road and the Indian shopkeeper caught up with me. He fell into step beside me and we strode along the main road together. He asked: 'Can I take you for a coffee?' I replied:'No thank you.' Undaunted he asked: 'Can I take you for a drink?' Again I replied: 'No thank you.' He then asked: 'Would you like to be my wife?' I was very surprised but once again I replied: 'No thank you.' He returned to his shop as I continued on my way.

Misadventures is published by Canongate, £9.99. To order it for £7.99 plus 99p p&p, call Observer CultureShop on 0800 3168 171