I got a phone call at lunchtime yesterday from Angela (a lawyer when she isn't writing) "I have just been given two tickets to see Spandau Ballet at the 02 tonight - are you coming."

Hell yes, (even if the response from the infant American lad sitting next to me, born while I hanging out at Blitz, was, "Um, who? What sort of music do they play…?"
(My dad did better, by the way - he remembered Spandau Ballet as the soundtrack to the Falklands Conflict.)

Well, last night they seemed to be playing very old music very well, and a good time was had by 20,000 40 somethings (and a few daughters) reliving their youth.

But, oh, my generation has not aged well.  It was an extraordinarily matronly affair, with a lot of pillowy bosom, echoing the Dome, and more cigarettes than HRT.

Seems to have had a strange subliminal effect.  Last night I dreamed of a decidedly ex-boyfriend, from circa 1988.  The dream was neutral enough, but the recollection in the morning made me want to gargle with something strong and minty.  Ick.