Crack out the Casio keyboards, lovelies! This evening Xanthe and I are going to see jumpsuited electropop pioneer Gary Numan. Obviously a night of synthy wonder awaits us, but we’re making the proceedings even more exciting by playing a themed game of I-Spy. See here how what we spot will be rewarded - scores to be reported tomorrow!

Person wearing black (1/2 point)
Person who looks as though they’ve escaped from 1980 (2 points)
Person who looks as though they have escaped from 1980 and is carrying a 1980 sized mobile phone (8 points)
Person who looks as though they have escaped from 1980, who looks scared and confused whenever a mobile phone rings, and therefore may in fact be from 1980 (30 points)

Lashings of eyeliner - Gal (1 point)
Lashings of eyeliner - Guy (5 points)
Black nail varnish - Gal (2 points)
Black nail varnish - Guy (5 points)
Human League haircut - Guy (3 points)
Human League haircut - Gal (5 points)
Jumpsuit - Gal (4 points)
Jumpsuit - Guy (5 points)

Person who gets confused during ‘Are Friends Electric?’ and sings The Sugababes’ ‘Freak Like Me’ (6 points)
Person who knows the words to songs other than ‘Are Friends Electric?’ and ‘Cars’ (4 points)
Person who knows the words to every song of the night (15 points)
Celebrity fan (4 points)
Celebrity fan who was also in the charts in 1979/1980 (8 points)
Celebrity fan who knows the words to songs other than ‘Are Friends Electric?’ and ‘Cars’ (10 points)
Gary Numan thanks The Sugababes for the new car/aeroplane he bought with those extra royalties (25 points)

There was more music under the stars this week, petals, as The Pretenders were playing in Central Park. Oh, how I adore them. Their tirelessly, timelessly sublime songs, the wittily wondrous videos (one of which features those most stylish ‘n’ splendid of sleuths, The Avengers), and the always unassumingly magnificent Chrissie Hynde - a spectacularly smart, sassy and soulful woman if ever there was one. So to see them play as dusk descended in the lose-yourself leafiness of this grand green space? As conservative conjuror Paul Daniels used to say, that’s magic.

Now, you may remember a recent note about a much loved, and recently lost, friend. She and I had been to a Pretenders show a couple of years ago and had a whale of a time. In tribute, Flora, another of her nearest and dearest, and I gambolled to the gig together. We arrived to catch Cat Power’s last few songs, then nestled on the grass with bottles of beer. Flora’s a delight and we’ve become mighty close since the loss of our lovely lass. We chatted as we waited for the main attraction, including catching up on boy nonsense. To wit: Flora’s found an alluring young man and was toying with tempting him into a date… would he be suitably stellar and snap up her proposal?

We’d composed a cheeky text and Flora had just hit ‘send’ when Chrissie and the lads strode on stage. They kicked straight into ‘Kid’ and the audience swayed along in the balmy, breezy evening air. Before they’d finished the song, Flora’s budding beau had taken the bait. Lickety split quick we’d conspired on a reply (I was being a bit bossy and co-authoring her flirtation), and by the time the band were ‘Back on the Chain Gang’ we’d reached round three. “Kitty,” said Flora, as the message zipped through the trees and out into the ether, “I do believe that tonight you are my Cyrano de Bergerac!” (though in case this raises any questions, I’ll just note that there’s nothing wrong with my nose).

As The Pretenders played on I glanced up into the darkening sky, wishing that our friend was with us. I felt an inevitable wave of mourning, the pangs of grief that come with any reminder of the dearly departed, and the firsts that you have to live through without them. I turned back to the stage, then to Flora and said, “The last time I saw them play this song, she was still here.” We shared a hug and a few tears, but also the belief that our girl was indeed there with us in spirit. And so, while it’s always the tingling, longing line I wait for, when my favourite part of my favourite song rolled round, it resonated even more than usual: “And who can explain the thunder and rain, but there’s something in the air…” Petals, this night there surely was.

But it wasn’t all whimsy in the woods. Well, not quite. Chrissie was ready to up the tempo, and announced, “Let’s rock!” And I kid you not - at this point a remarkable wind rose, blustering through the trees, summoning the leaves into a rustling Mexican wave of percussion. Which was - wowsers - quite otherworldly. From there we danced right through to the final ebbs of the encore. After Ms Hynde’s heartfelt and gracious goodbye the crowd ambled out into the park. Flora and I followed, remarking on our favourite of the super singer’s introductions: “This is for all the good guys out there,” she had said, before adding, with a little winking wit, “Assuming there are some, right girls?” “I’d like to find one of those,” said Flora. To which I agreed, though I think my non-Cyranic nose is better at sniffing out cake shops.

Oh, and the um, Talk of the Town? Flora’s got a date this weekend. Of course, we’re hoping he’d get good guy approval (thus far I have limited knowledge, lovelies, but from the texts I saw, he can certainly spell).And before I go, if you haven’t read it already, skip back a couple of steps to read a rather companionable note to this… which features some of Ms Hynde’s wise words that we’d all do well to live by. Look for ‘A Message of Love’.

And on that note… ‘Til next week!

A quick query, lovelies. As expressions go, being a gooseberry is an odd ‘un, hm? I’m rather fond of gooseberries (the edible variety, naturally), who tickle taste buds from the same tarty party as rhubarb, another firm favourite of mine. And I have to say in all the times I’ve encountered these dandy green delectables, I’ve not once seen any signs of social awkwardness. No pairs shuffling away from an insensitive third party, squeaking complaints about needing space to get fruity. Or Mean Girl quarrels, like a griping grocery equivalent to squabbling popsters the Sugababes. Though actually, that makes me think of top contenders for pop trios with an odd one out: bottle-top wearing band of brothers, Bros, had the Goss boys and third wheel Craig Logan, who when not referred to as ‘the other one’ was wittily rechristened ‘Ken’. And when Siobhan Fahey left Bananarama, a substitute banana was drafted in. Jacqui always looked a bit too sensible to last - the gal less likely to be getting legless down the pub the night before filming ‘Top of the Pops’ - and indeed her time in the trio turned out to be rather temporary. As the saying goes, sometimes three surely is a crowd.

But back to the berries. It seems a shame to give a social stigma to such a fantastic fruit. I say, goodness, give the gooseberries a break. After all, as Kermit once said, it’s not easy being green. And he should know - did you see his appearance on Lady GaGa recently? Far more terrifying than Miss Piggy.

And on that note… ‘til next week, lovelies!

This week I’m going to be a bit sentimental, lovelies, but with good reason. Recently, heartbreakingly, one of my closest friends died. It’s a loss that my usually disco-dancing brain cells have found almost impossible to process, not least because you never expect the time you have with friends to be anything less than infinite (of course, I imagine our twilight years spent together in the old folks’ home, drinking sherry and redoing old Smash Hits crosswords).

This friend was extraordinary. She was young, talented, clever, and thoughtful. She was funny and fun to be around. She was breathtakingly beautiful, but as much so - more so - on the inside as the outside, and, incredibly, made her friends feel equally gorgeous. She was remarkably generous, never judgemental, and above all else, exceptionally, unceasingly kind.

A year or two ago she and I went to see The Pretenders play. It was a fantastic show, my friend loved it, and we ambled home in high spirits - I can still picture her now, in one of the vintage rock t-shirts she used to wear, exclaiming how glorious the gig had been. Which is just one of my many happy memories from the many years I knew her… It was also the first thing I thought of after seeing a recent interview with The Pretenders’ wise and wondrous Chrissie Hynde; she was explaining that a new song she’d written was about how we put pressure on ourselves to achieve great things in our lives, when in fact it’s a perfectly grand achievement to simply live a life of kindness. I thought that an amazing and truly exemplary thing to say. And also, serendipitously, a perfect tribute to my friend.

We should never underestimate how even just a handful of sweet words or the smallest of actions can touch someone. My friend’s kindnesses - from the tiniest to the most tremendous - were remembered by all who encountered her. So petals, before I pootle off, let me just say: go forth and be kind! (and really, would you question the counsel of the magnificent Ms Hynde?).

And on that note, ‘til next week…

Today I’ve been on a tuneful ramble through my iTunes library, lovelies, and as I jaunted through the J’s I stumbled on some unlikely neighbours: Woking wonders The Jam nestling next to perky pixie, and former Go Go, Jane Wiedlin. Hearing the latter’s jauntily sublime summer number ‘Rush Hour’ put me in a daze… back to Bognor School, to the scent of full-force hairspray and the sight of lovesick teenage graffiti written in super-shimmer sugar pink lippy in the lasses’ loos. Here I remember my reapplication of a sticky, sickly sweet lip gloss being accompanied by a ‘Rush Hour’ rendition, thanks to an older gal stood singing into the mirror whilst back-combing her hair into gravity-defying splendour. Her barnet may have been questionable, but to me her pop taste was spot on.

Incidentally, many moons ago, Banksey, Lady S, Madison and I went on a day trip to Calais. Where, whilst foraging around a French hypermarket, I found a selection of fruity lip glosses, flavours identifiable by a small, colourless illustration. “Rhubarb
flavour!” I’d exclaimed with delight… only to find my lip-smacking satisfaction somewhat spoiled by the taste of similarly slim-looking liquorice.

And before we - wait for it! - kiss this subject goodbye (boom boom!) I remember having a pearly, pale pink lipstick as appealing for its name as it’s Just 17-endorsed fashion forward-ness. It was called ‘Covent Garden Slicker’, and gosh, petals, I thought I could give Wendy James and those other frostily pouted popsters a run for their money with that… (though looking back, the colour was more likely to make a lass look like Twin Peaks’ cult corpse Laura Palmer, oops).

But back to the J’s. Next up, Ms Jocelyn Brown giving her lungs a hearty work out on ‘Somebody Else’s Guy’. Will you excuse me, lovelies? I think it’s time for a shimmy around the kitchen…

And on that note - ‘til next week!

Petals, I’ve just got back to Blighty, and in the words of that naughty comedy knight, Russell Brand, ‘tis rhubarb! Quite literally, lovelies. Flying the flag for my favourite flamingo coloured fruit is Marks & Sparks, with an assortment of delectables including Rhubarb and Custard Sponge Roll - at the sight of which I practically dribbled my way along the cake aisle. But on the down(er) side, I’d use this expression as a proclamation as to the usual sad state of celebrity affairs. They met on ‘I’m a Celebrity… Get Me Out of Here!’ and married at a ‘Footballers’ Wives’-esque wedding, but now savvy silicone slapper Jordan and seemingly sweet but dim Peter Andre are getting divorced. Not that I’m crying into my fizzy Ribena about that, but I did wince when they asked that their privacy be respected. Oh, the irony! If everything from the birth of your babies to the opening of your electricity bill warrants a Hello! special, it’s a bit late to call off the press hounds now.

Anyway! That sponge roll is calling me from the cake tin, so I’m off for a tea break. Ta-ra for now - ‘til next time…!