911

No, not American emergency services. A 1990s boyband. Who my friend Alysia used to be mad about. And who were playing at Chicago's in Bishop's Stortford on Friday (yeah...not quite Wembley or Shea Stadium, is it? The stage is smaller than my kitchen). And I made the mistake of telling her...

Anyway. All I can say is I've never been to a gig where the band threw out freebies like these before. I am now the proud owner of a 7" dildo, courtesy of 911. And yes, I asked them to sign it. And yes, I was sober.



On another note, we did have cause for an emergency last night when Spike didn't come home and we realised none of us had seen him since Saturday afternoon. Cue much panic, not helped by my mother outlining the possible scenarios (he's trapped, he's hurt, he's been stolen, or he's dead. I felt so much better for hearing that). An especial fear was that we live about 50yds from a main road with three pubs. What if someone, leaving the oub on Saturday night, had picked up this friendly white cat and shoved him in a wheelie bin for a joke? Those bins get colelcted on Monday morning.

Which had me rushing around stuffing flyers through everyone's door begging them to check their bins, sheds and garages. We were just on our way back from doing the immediate area when my brother called: a neighbour just down the road had found him in the garage, safe and sound, if a little hungry.

Little beggar's hardly left my side since. Except when he tried to follow my dad into the garage earlier...

'No photos, please!'