I've been at the hairdresser's this morning. Enjoying hand massages, shearing, chit-chat...

Blimey, the chit-chat. Enlightening, not the word.

On making brews and hand massaging duty today was... well, let's call her Lolita, who was the chattiest little girl I've met in ages.

She told me all about her prom dress (they do this now in secondary schools. I know. As if the Americanisation of Britain could get worse) which is pink and had to be flown here from the US *figures* and looks just like Beauty's dress in Beauty and the Beast. And it cost £350 *what?* but she's going to sell in on e-bay after, once it's been drycleaned and boxed so she gets at least half the money back for it *err.. ok?*

And then we have a chatter about her ambitions to own her own hairdressing business, her family, her sisters.

Then we get down to football and she tells me she supports City *poor choice but she is only 16* and that she went to Liverpool once and saw Stevie Gerrard in a bar.

'Ooooooh, he's gorgeous,' she coos behind me as she washes dye out my hair. 'No one was bothering him but I went running up and said "Ooooh, you're Stevie Gerrard aren't you" and he said "Err.. hello" and I got me photo taken with him and I managed to touch him bum.' *Yes, you heard right.*

'You touched up Stevie Gerrard?'

'Well, I couldn't miss the opportunity could I? My mum says if she were with Bon Jovi she'd do the same. Who would you pick?'

'You mean who would I touch up on the sly if I met them?'

'Oh yes'

I can't believe I'm having this conversation with anyone, never mind a 16 year old I met half an hour ago. Let me think, who is so famous I would deliberately sexually assault? Hmmmm...

Because I'm still listening to 17-minute live versions of My Generation five times a day I say 'Roger Daltry'. I'm visualising the Woodstock years, when I would have been four, so that would have made me promisculous but - god, this is so wrong on so many levels. *Don't worry Roger, I might politely shake your hand were we to meet, but I'm not about to ram it down the back of your jeans.*

Is it right, groping people because they're famous? Do famous people realise they are being touched up or do they just think the public is terribly tactile these days? Was I that brazen at 16? Am I just being prim?

I can't get my head round wanting to dress up like a princess at secondary school but also be out there copping a feel of a footballer. And telling a complete stranger about it.

Good thing? Bad thing? Bloody odd thing, I know that!