PART 1:

I kept telling myself that I wouldn't believe the tour was really happening until I was actually on the plane, flying to England. So, I guess it is really happening. We are on the plane and we are due to arrive in London in about eight hours. I can't believe Missy and I used to make this flight at least 6 or 7 times a year without batting an eye.

Missy and I have been rehearsing our vocals everyday and I have been playing guitar like a woman possessed but it is sure not the same without the boys. We can't wait to see them and plug everything in.

As usual, Missy and I are panicking over things that haven't happened yet. What if we walk out on the stage and people boo because they want the Wonder Stuff? What if there is only one lone little fan in his
faded "Beehive Yourself" t-shirt clapping and calling for "I Think I Love You"? What if the old saying, "What if you threw a party and nobody came," came true? Remember the dream we have all had, at least once, where you go out in public with no clothes on and everyone is laughing? What if they don't even laugh?

All these thoughts have occurred to me consciously and subconsciously (my dreams have been hysterical but those will cost you a penny). About a month before we were due to leave I decided to take real action. I made myself a set list. Not a Beehive set list (I had been making those in my sleep ever since the band "faded"). This was going to be a set list to remind me of the reason that I wanted to go to London to be in a band in the first place.

It took two bars of The Jam's "Beat Surrender" to remind me why I wanted to ride the underground again. Two bars of The Undertones "I Don't Want to Get Over You" to make me crave poached eggs and beans, and with The Kinks "Waterloo Sunset" as a finale, visions of telecasters danced in my head.

Everyone I had talked to told me that London had changed so much, that I wouldn't recognize it, that the food was actually "really good now." I always like to see these things for myself.

I know already that certain things will be different this time around. Kirsty MacColl is gone and we won't have anymore all night dance-a-thons. Actually, we only had one but it was one of the best nights I had in my ten years in London. Janice Long had given a party and Kirsty and I felt like continuing on after everyone else had puckered out. She asked me round to her house where we raided her closet sized liquor pantry, picked records (yes, records, vinyl) from her record collection that was the size of the wall of a room and then danced until we threw the curtains open to morning.

Joe Strummer was also gone. Unfortunately, I never met him.

In all this change who would possibly remember our tiny little band, some little pop hiccup that occurred before the vast explosion of the Spice Girls?

I had no idea where I fit in, in the world of pop music, so nothing had changed. But if it would get me to London and if it would get me anywhere near to the sound of Mike's guitar again, I was willing to do anything.

So, to the strains of The Smiths "There Is A Light That Never Goes Out," I hoped those words were true as our plane landed.


PART 2: MEET ME AT HEATHROW

It was a year of sheer anticipation. After nine months of a roller coaster emotions, more than two hundred band dreams where I have forgotten to make a set list ten minutes before the show, eight new calluses from guitar playing, endless hours of shopping for something to wear on stage (only to find I still don’t understand fashion), endless vocal practices with Missy and I trying to be "serious," three hundred e-mails to Martin, two tickets from Virgin Airlines to London, five in-house films and six packets of airplane peanuts, we were landing in Heathrow.

Martin, being his usual reliable self, was picking us up from the airport to assure himself, more than us, that we could get into London without causing too much damage to his hometown or ourselves.

He also insisted on this (I secretly suspect) to prevent us from spending all our new British cash at the long lost and much beloved English phenomenon: the newsagent. Even as we stood in the customs line we could hear British Vogue, Hello! and Majesty magazine seductively whispering, "We’re waiting." Yorkie chocolates, Wotsits, Dime bars and Salt and Vinegar Crisps sat patiently ready to welcome us back with open artificially flavored arms. I sometimes ask myself, "Where DID all the money go?" only to hear Martin in the back of my mind whispering, "the newsagent."

"Welcome to England."

Pop back with me a year ago today. I was watching some documentary on old theatres, and they unexpectedly cut to a view of London from one of the rooftops in the Covent Garden theatre district. It took my breath away. It was so beautiful and so familiar to me. I had forgotten how much I loved it. Here I was with tears in my eyes pining, (literally pining) and feeling so desperate and sick for London again. Isn’t that how "Just A City" had been written in the first place so many years ago? I didn’t see any real way of getting there anytime soon (again the exact same feeling that inspired that little song). I was immersed in my life in Laguna Beach and wasn’t the same impulsive creature.

Two days later, Robert from the website forwarded me an e-mail from Martin from Wonderstuff asking us to join their band on a quick little Christmas tour next year. A chance to see the boys again with a whole year to prepare. I think that was one reason why I was so happy to hear the proposition. The timing was too uncanny to ignore.

Now let’s return to Heathrow. I had waited a long time for this exact moment. Stepping foot in an airport that once had been as much my home as my actual flat. Seeing a dear friend for the first time after almost ten years. Even simply being abroad again. How the hell did I think I could just step back into Voice of the Beehive? To be honest, I started feeling a little sick. Then something strange happened, my mind and body kind of slowly went into a survival mode. I became really calm. I knew the tour was going to be great. I was going to be back with my second family playing songs that were as familiar to me as my own language. My sister would be right next to me. We were coming back to see some old friends and play some music. You don’t really ever forget how to do that. It would just be on the stage at Hammersmith. (!!!)

I looked up and there was Martin, practically standing where we had left him 9 years ago, at the International Flights queue in Heathrow. He still loomed over everyone (long rock and roll spider legs). He looked exactly the same. Exactly. We gave him hugs and giggled (Missy and I giggled) and he said to us, "You look exactly the same!"

Martin had been with us through a lot, chart hits and failed singles. Tours in four star hotels and vans with broken heaters.

I had been through drinking, touring boyfriends, obsessive managers and dying friends, with Martin always by my side, "making fun of me." Somehow that always helped.

There we all were (well, almost all of us). And as Missy and Martin walked ahead of me chatting, I noticed Martin had the same way of gesturing and that same sudden laugh. Missy was so tiny and still talked like a smart little wind up doll. And I realized that even though everything had changed, maybe there was this little pocket of time that the Beehive could crawl back into. Maybe we could even bring our fans with us.

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