My sister turns 30 today, although she's in a continued state of denial about it, sending out emails inviting people to her 29th birthday party and requesting presents such as Jackie annuals and Culture Club albums. It won't wash with me. I remember the date vividly. 21st February 1974. Quite a day. Actually, I remember nothing about it, but my mother records the facts that I initially became highly distressed when she appeared in the house, starting to stammer, twitch violently and, strangely, leap tall buildings in a single bound. After a while, I apparently started to show a little interest in her, and [cue Susannah and I screwing up our faces in disgust] “wanted to hold her”.

There was no “holding” going on last night, rather a businesslike visit to Mecca bingo on Essex Road for the first leg of the birthday celebrations. It's a glorious building, utterly wasted on bingo, and Steve remenisced about having seen The Faces there in 1967. Rod Stewart wasn't there tonight, and we sat on the stage approximately where Ronnie Wood's guitar amp would have been. Diction classes had been skipped by the main bingo caller, an Asian chap called Nick. Bingo-goers are obviously a hardened bunch, but there were even clamours of protest from them as Nick annouced the number 72 by intoning quietly “7, 7, 2, 7'n'2, 2, 7, 2'n7, 2, 7. 2.” I daydreamed of snatching the microphone, booting him in the groin and, to cheers from the assembled throng, embarking on a series of Stuart Hall-esque calls. “Yes! And what do we have here… haha! Theseus and the Minotaur… 64!” But I didn't.

We blew about 20 quid each on various cards, and over about 30 games came nowhere near winning anything. The national was won by someone in Cwmbran, and we had the pleasure of hearing a Welsh bingo caller reading out the winning numbers over a buzzing phone line. I'd repeat it for you now, but accents never come across very well on web pages.

The best thing about bingo is the deep sigh of utter misery that goes up every time someone claims a win. Note well that if you visit Mecca on Essex Road, the correct way to announce that you've won is not “House” or “Bingo” or, indeed “By jove, I think I've got it” but rather “'ere y'are.” I believe this is “London” for “here you are”. Any deviance from “'ere y'are” will assure that you receive even more glares of hatred that you would otherwise have done for daring to win in the first place.

Post bingo we revisited a tapas place a few doors down the road, which I would dearly love to name and shame but can't because I can't remember the name. I can, however shame it; some deep fried mushroom dish for approx £3.25 came to the table with 3 mushrooms on it, and a bit of lettuce and mayonnaise to pad out the plate. We called the waitress over to make a comment about this, and she just smiled and shrugged. “Is this normal, 3 mushrooms?” Smile, shrug. After a few more seconds of smiling and shrugging we took matters into our own hands, by, er, eating them, paying up (including a tip) and going home. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so bloody British. By rights we should have come back in the dead of night and firebombed the place.

On the way home on the number 43 bus, a podgy blonde woman in a leather jacket bored senseless a similarly leather-jacketed man by talking constantly for 40 minutes while he nodded, gazing out of the window longingly at humans who weren't haranguing him. She posed a great number of rhetorical questions. “So, obviously there was instant attraction, but he had a girlfriend, and do I want to have any part of that? Well, no obviously I don't, but did that stop him from contacting me again and again? Well, no it didn't, and then of course the final straw came when he invited me around for a threesome, and what could I do? Well….” Lots of hair flicking, and scowling. “Face liked a smacked arse”, I took pleasure in saying as she exited the bus.

Oh, here's a lovely thing from the Guardian informer.

A woman was fined GBP210 by magistrates after listing her cows as voters on an electoral registration form, the Press Association reports.

Brenda Gould, of Newmarket, near Cambridge, was convicted of giving false information.

“Mrs Gould completed her form for 2003/2004 indicating that her address had been split into two properties, with her residing in one part and showing two other persons living in the second,” said a spokesman for East Cambridgeshire District Council, who brought the prosecution.

“It emerged that the other persons Mrs Gould claimed to be living in the second property were, in fact, her cows.

“It was the second time Mrs Gould had submitted false electoral information, as the electoral form she submitted for the previous year had listed her cows, 'Henry and Sophie Bull', and her dog, 'Jake Woofles', as being eligible to vote in local government elections.”

The spokesman said Gould, whose age is not known, had been scheduled to appear in court at Ely, Cambridgeshire, on Tuesday but did not arrive. She was convicted in her absence and ordered to pay a GBP100 fine and GBP110 costs.