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forgotten me despite our regular emails over the past ten years since we were at school together in Jersey. I know, I know; I should have written more.
     
    Actually I’m writing this real snail-mail letter via your manager, Mr Scowl, since I seem to have lost your email address even though I did definitely have it. Definitely. And Facebook etc is just so impersonal and, like, EVERYWHERE, don’t you think?
     
    So, just to remind you in case stardom has totally gone to your head and you can’t recall large chunks of your childhood (as sometimes happens with stress and traumatic events like getting tossed around by mad fans in the mosh pit), it’s Cat Andrews here. Remember? Goofy old Cat – well, young Cat then because I was only 5 and you were 7 possibly 8 and in Year 3 when I was in Year 1. And I was called Catherine back in the day. My teacher was Mr Favreau and he was French. I … um … can’t quite bring to mind who your teacher was even though we were such close friends and you talked about him/her all the time.
     
    Anyway, buddy, friend, matey mate mate … I hear you’re in town next week playing at the Zed with Double Vomit Vision, and I thought maybe we could hang out a bit after the show? I’ve got a really lovely friend who is so gorgeous she causes fainting, fighting and tidal waves in the school canteen who just can’t wait to meet you!
     
    Call me and let me know where to find you after the concert!
     
    Your old friend,
    Cat Andrews – 07912 200976
    Formerly Catherine Melissa Andrews X
     
    Oh, and more kisses from Dolores, the lovely friend who is helping me write thi s 

Chapter 4 : Crazy Horses (The Osmonds)
     
    We ended up having to get a lift to the Zed with Dean which Dolores thought was completely tragic. (‘Omigod, we might as well be put in buggies and rolled up there by our mums,’ she said when I told her. ‘Okay, meet me there then,’ I said, ‘if you want to get the bus and then walk and get your hair damp and smell like a wet dog when Jazzy D comes to meet you.’ ‘It’s sum-mer; it won’t be raining,’ she retorted. Then she looked outside at the sky. “What time shall I come over?’ she added quickly. We settled on arriving at the Zed at 5.40pm - just late enough to be cool even with parental drop-offs, but not too late that we couldn’t establish a meeting with Jazzy D if he got back to me in time).
    I thought having a lift with Dean was completely tragic, too, but for other reasons than it was very uncool. Although it really was uncool. But here are my reasons:
We would have to go with Aggie if it was in her dad’s car, so there’d be no way of losing her at the critical moment of Jazzy-meeting to shake her off.
Aggie was not super-pretty like Dolores, but what if Jazzy went for her instead of D, leaving D free to carry on whispering to Nerdy Ferdy/Freddie and causi ng my lower stomach to convulse?
I had to go to Dean and Aggie’s house which made it all seem a bit more official between my mum and Dean. I mean, I know our old family unit had been ruined when she split up with Dad, but it didn’t mean I needed or even wanted a new family unit. What was the woman thinking?! Oh, okay, I suppose she was thinking that she might deserve to be happy after all this time, and I suppose she does, but it did seem a bit much that she’d found a boyfriend (aghhh, no, still can’t say it – companion stroke associate) with children. Child. Nearly adult.
It was really uncool. Felt like going to the school disco in Year 6, when all the mums (and dads at that point) stood around the edge of the dance floor drinking warm wine is small plastic juice cups and dancing embarrassingly. Very uncool, even for nerdy science freaks like me.
     
    Just to prove how little parents’ opinions affected her, Dolores turned up at my house at 4.30 in what looked like her sports gear – tiny white shorts and an equally tiny and white tight top that made her legs look tanned and endless and