ET can we phone your home?

 Obsessive devotion is always tricky. For example, as a member of the Suzi Quatro Fan Club you must follow your tiny icon to wherever she finds work - be it a sawdust 'n' spit boozer or a dodgy rep theatre in Cumbria. (Half a ton of leather, leatherette or leather-look is a sartorial must.) For the Barbie Brigade, the boat can really be pushed out. You must accessorise with driving gloves and colour coordinated clutch bags, and for the true devotee, your local plastic surgeon can apparently facilitate that two-inch Barbie waistline and rabbit-in-the headlights stare.

Meet our fan club, a much simpler affair - operating from our bedsit in the St John's Wood area. All we ask of you is a 50 pence membership fee, a good pair of sensible shoes and a working knowledge of the unexpurgated script of Howards End. So far, the interest has been limited, but, alas, the Joe Public pendulum of goodwill never seems to swing the way of poor Emma.

This year we staged our first activity weekend for the group: role playing pre-war housekeepers, work shopping through some tricky miscarriage of justice situations, wafting through a mock Tuscan palazzo wearing nothing but linen smocks, etc. This was to prepare us for the big event on Sunday afternoon our first pilgrimage to the hallowed turf of Thompson.

We had written in advance to ask ourselves to tea - taking her silence as, a form of gentle acquiescence. And so, at the appointed hour we set off. Heads bowed, sweaty palms clasped together in supplication, we pigeon-toed our way to the bijou residence of our thespian Godhead.

A thousand possibilities flashed through our minds. What would the real Emma be like? Would she be tart and Kate Lemony, tear-stained and tweedy, or just plain Emma, beavering away in tight restrictive corsetry, baking scones and sundry sweetmeats for the poor and needy of the world. We reckoned on a combination of all three. We waited outside the Thomspon temple imagining the drawing room with log fire glowing and a fine spread laid before us. We just hoped that she hadn't gone to too much trouble - a chipped mug of rosy and a Rich Tea from her divine hands would be feast enough for us mere mortals.

Hours later, still stuck on the pavement, we took to singing campfire songs, and boosting morale with impromptu enactments of key moments from Dead Again. As dawn came up over Hampstead we were asked to move on by a sympathetic member of Her Majesty's Constabulary.

The fan club dies that day. Only two of us remain, President and Chairperson respectively, but our commitment to the cause remains untarnished.

So where were you that day, Emma? We weren't asking for much - just the sight of your floury hand, waving us into the conservatory, a whiff of the copper kettle spewing forth cups of Earl Grey, a glimpse of the BAFTA twinkling in the window. Perhaps we overdid it with the banners. Maybe the video cameras put you off. Or the wax effigies. In our more optimistic moments we tell ourselves it was part of a massive Royal Mail conspiracy and our letter was never delivered to you. Whatever the reason, you broke our hearts.

Afterwards, as the tears dried and we tried to console each other, one of our number claimed she'd seen Emma's aristocratic finger at the window giving us The Bird. We weren't convinced. Not Emma. She'd be much more likely to give us two fingers. After all, she's a lady, isn't she?