"We're getting the band back together!" Dizzy slammed her newspaper down onto the grease-spotted tabletop.

Blue Lou grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser at the end of the booth, and dumped them into the path of the pool of spilled coffee that was oozing towards her. "Dammit, Dizzy! Who do you think you are - Dan Aykroyd?"

The others sitting at the booth hurriedly pulled their mugs out of the way and grabbed their plates as Dizzy shook out her copy of the NME. "Look!" she declared, pointing at three column inches of type that lay just below the fold. There were muttered curses as people jostled for space to read the review that Dizzy was so excited about.

Mad Marty shrugged, her vinyl jacket creaking at the movement. "So? These nobodies got a good review. Lots of bands get a good review."

"Except us," Blue Lou added. There was more than a hint of bitterness in her voice.

"Yes - but look who wrote it!" Dizzy squealed. A of the other diners in the greasy spoon turned to stare at her.

"Use your indoor voice - please!" Blue hissed.

"We're punks! We don't have indoor voices!" Dizzy raised two fingers towards the other patrons of the café, and grinned as they turned back to their fry-ups and plates of toast. Then she turned back to her friends. "Darren wrote it," she said excitedly. "And we all know that people pay attention to Darren."

Blue Lou finished mopping up her spilled coffee. "Yeah. People listen to him. Good for him. What's that got to do with the band?"

Dizzy stabbed her finger at the paper again. "We beat these guys at the Academy two years ago. We should be getting this review - not them!"

Mad Marty leaned back on the seat, staring at the nicotine-yellow ceiling tiles above. "If we still had a band, maybe. But since Foney left us, we don't have a bass player. I mean - what kind of band doesn't have a bass player?"

Dizzy picked up her paper. "Yeah. Well. I'm gonna do something about that." She turned her back and marched towards the café's door, the chiming of her chains punctuated by the click-clack of high heels on the tiled floor. She paused long enough to look back over her shoulder. "You bitches coming or what?"