Last night, Vanessa and I journeyed into Leeds to watch a-ha.
For once, we even had decent seats. (I felt it was important that Mrs W could properly compare my youthful appearance with that of lead singer Morten Harket. He's just turned 60. Meh).
a-ha were fabulous, to be fair. I bought all of their albums, 12 and 7 inch singles back in the day, although my walls were reserved exclusively for posters of Madonna, Debbie Gibson, Belinda Carlisle, Bananarama and the Bangles. (Oh, and the Communards but that was only because the female singer with the deep voice on Don't Leave Me This Way signed my programme after their gig at the Grand Opera House in Belfast in September 1986).
In the coming weeks, I'm booked in to see Seven Drunken Nights (a Dubliners tribute show), plus the real Happy Mondays and Snow Patrol. I've chosen not to accompany Vanessa, Charlotte and other girlies to Little Mix in a couple of weeks. That would just be wrong.
In other news, Cleo the Cat is yet to escape and might even like living in our house.
She's already bowled Charlotte over.
Made a new friend (herself).
(Charlotte, in her Halloween dress, did too but forgot to look behind to say boo).
Cleo also likes rugby, a definite plus.
And doesn't appear to hate my wonky feet.
All good.
