The very first gig I went ever went to was on January 5th 1980 and I was 15 years old.
My friend from school and I were both huge Blondie fans and our parents allowed us to travel the 10 miles on the train to Newcastle City Hall all by ourselves - although my dad insisted on meeting us on the way home.
I'm going to share a bit more about Blondie, Debbie Harry in particular, the spell she holds over women like me and the reason she made me want to be a writer.
Something exciting and right hit the music scene, the pop charts, call it what you will, when I was 15. It was punk, ska, women musicians in bands without men. I probably first saw and heard Blondie on Top of the Pops, it must have been that show as it was the only one I'd heard of on TV at the time. I wasn't old enough or sassy enough to have heard of The Old Grey Whistle Test, or The Oxford Road Show but it didn't take me long to discover their appeal.
Loving Blondie's music and the way that Debbie and the band looked, it became a mission to find out as much about the band as I could. This meant looking further than the teen magazines of Jackie and My Guy I'd been reading until then. I had to venture into town and loiter by the hippies and the bikers in WH Smith to buy the latest Sounds, Melody Maker, NME and the occasional Smash Hits.
I even stumbled across the exotic (for a young Sunderland girl from a council estate) Rolling Stone magazine and I'd read everything and anything on the band to feed my Blondie habit.
I needed to know how their music was inspired, how they got their lyrics, where Debbie got her clothes. Reading the music press was an eye opener for me. Not only did I love what I was reading, I loved the way it read. I wanted to read more, I loved the irreverent comments the journos would make about a record they hated or loved.
But for now, it was reading, as often and as much as I possibly could about Blondie and the whole host of New Wave and Indie bands that shaped my musical tastes from age 15 onwards, and continue to do so today.
Because of Blondie, I discovered writer Lester Bangs. I devoured his every word and discovered photographer Mick Rock. American pop culture became my thing, I could have gone onto teenage Mastermind (had there been such a thing) and answered questions on it as my specialist subject. Boys at school were impressed with my knowledge of bands, lyrics, backstage gossip and the fact I could recommend articles for them to read. I loved reading the music press and books on the bands and it became frustratingly clear to me that I wanted nothing more than to write that way too.
I never have written about music. I don't even know that I could although it's not something I've tried (yet). But it did inspire me to get writing, something and anything, everything I could and still continue to do so. And for that, Debbie Harry, I thank you very much.
Ok London, I'm ready to move on. 
I've been writing Coronation Street weekly updates since 1995 and this week's Coronation Street update has just gone live here.
1. Piccadilly Line. It runs from the end of my street to central London in 20 minutes flat.
Being a football fan and living with / loving another football fan, our Saturdays now start at football o’clock even if we do support different teams. Like a lot of football fans, we’ve got a Saturday ritual thing going which includes a big grilled breakfast with lashings of tea while wearing lucky socks and pants. It’s then off to football we go to support either the away games in London for Sunderland AFC (me) or Middlesbrough FC (him). But before we head out of the door, there’s a part of the ritual that must be observed otherwise the day will surely end in tears. Yes, we turn the telly on and tune in to watch Soccer AM. The show on Sky has become one of my favourite TV programmes over the last few years, due in no small part to female presenter Helen Chamberlain who is a real joy to watch. 
The Guardian once asked: What's wrong with tall women dating short men? As a tall woman who has dated short men in the past, let me give you the answer to that question. 
There's a Playboy shop on London's Oxford Street. Hardly a mecca for discerning shoppers, Oxford Street's more dingy end contains the type of shop that displays most of their goods outside the shop on security hangers to 'entice' people inside. This is the low budget, rip off, dirty end of Oxford Street and it's here where I've just passed a Playboy Shop sign.
I was in one of the big multimedia barns on London’s Oxford Street the other week, ooh, let's call it HMV for argument's sake. Browsing the CD racks, waiting for new tunes to catch my eye and shout ‘Buy Me’, I heard an almighty roar at the back of the shop. Turning to see where the noise was coming from, I saw a line of teenage boys, all hormonal and angsty, all of them moving, jitterish, but none of them speaking. It turns out the noise was coming from a new computer game being previewed in-store and the boys were waiting in line for their turn on the new game. Well, ok, I thought, so that’s what the noise is. But then I noticed the girls. 
As well as my lovely man getting on the blog bandwagon, my smashing niece has now started her own blog. 
