Abortion uproar

Abortion is suddenly a burning issue again here in Northern Ireland, where the anti-abortion group Precious Life is organising a campaign against the new legal guidelines from the Department of Health.

They claim the new guidance on interpreting the abortion law amounts to "abortion on demand through the back door".

They're backing a motion due to be debated in the Northern Ireland Assembly, tabled by DUP* MPs Jeffrey Donaldson and Iris Robinson, that claims the new guidelines are flawed and opposes "any attempt to make abortion more widely available".

How exactly the new guidelines could possibly mean abortion on demand is a mystery, as neither the MPs or Precious Life have explained this extraordinary accusation.

Since the document runs to 40 pages, it's difficult to know whereabouts this scurrilous proposal is lurking. Give us a clue, Jeffrey!

In fact the guidelines are merely a response to a court case brought by the Family Planning Association asking for clarification of the current abortion law, which allows abortion only if there is a threat to the mother's life or her physical or mental health. The court didn't change the law in any way.

Just who started this absurd scare story and how many people will believe it? And why is no other politician brave enough to demolish it?

Footnote: Several Catholic schools in Belfast recently cut their links with Amnesty International after it supported abortion in certain circumstances such as rape. What a green light for male violence and female servitude! Thanks so much, boys and girls.

* The Democratic Unionist Party, led by Ian Paisley

Green fatigue

"Oh no, not more melting glaciers and dying polar bears. We saw all that last week. Change the channel, sweetheart, that Keira Knightley film's just starting. I need something entertaining, I've had a bastard of a day."

There's more and more talk of green fatigue, the idea that global warming is too vast and too complex a problem for individuals to do much about. So we just get apathetic and stop thinking about it.

Even if we do everything we're supposed to do, from recycling rubbish to turning the heating down, becoming neurotic fussbags in the process, global temperatures just keep on rising and damage to the planet gets worse.

As scientist Susanne Moser puts it, it's like going on a strict diet for months, while other people eat as much as they like, and the only result is you don't gain weight quite as fast. Sooner or later, bang goes the diet.

It doesn't help to see the reeking hypocrisy of politicians and celebrities telling us to curb our extravagant lifestyles while they're jetting round the world and buying yet more luxury mansions. Move into a caravan, Mister, and we might do the same.

The other daunting thing is the neverendingness of it all. It's not a simple matter of sending a tenner and saving a starving child. Just when you think you're on top of the 101 daily routines that need to be made greener (and you're exhausted), some poxy environmentalist comes along with half a dozen more to think about. What about cruise ships? What about mobile phones? Aaarrgh!

No wonder people give up in despair. Stopping global warming has become a full-time job and we're not even getting paid for it. Of course I care as much as anybody - but isn't there a simpler way?

Toxic islands

As you innocently unpeel a nice creamy banana, spare a thought for the banana-growers on the islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe, which have been thoroughly poisoned by years of illegal pesticide-spraying.

A French cancer specialist says the 800,000 inhabitants of the islands face a health disaster from toxins that have wrecked the soil and water supplies for up to a century.

Such are the soaring rates of cancer, infertility and birth defects that complete evacuation of the islands would probably be the best course of action.

Chlordecone, a highly toxic pesticide, was sprayed illegally over the islands from 1993 to 2002, to kill weevils. Every child in Guadeloupe is contaminated with it and they will pass it on to their own children in turn.

As if that isn't enough, the residents are still trying to recover from the effects of Hurricane Dean, which ruined about three quarters of all the banana plantations. Many growers are unable to replant their crops because of the ravaged soil and water.

It's yet another graphic example of how capitalists will go to ruthless extremes to up their profits at the expense of people's health and quality of life. In this case however they've shat in their own beds and sabotaged future economic prospects for everyone. Thanks a bunch, you might say.

It's also a vivid reminder that all the health and safety regulations you can think of (whatever they might be on these two islands) are of no avail if one greedy bastard is determined to trample all over them. They may as well be soap bubbles.

(See the article in the London Independent 19.09.07)

NB: the bananas themselves are not affected by the poison (or so they say)

Superspouses

Relationships* have certainly changed since my childhood, when rigid sex roles were so normal it was enough for my father and mother to be a typical male and female and ne'er the twain shall meet.

Nowadays as sex roles blur around the edges, couples expect each other to break out of these limited boxes and be capable of just about anything - to be Superspouses.

It's not enough for the man to be able to put up shelves or repair the car or get horny. Now he has to look after the baby, do some cooking, be emotionally sensitive and be a good socialiser. A Jack of all trades, infinitely adaptable.

Likewise the woman can't get by on looking sexy, getting the dinner on the table and changing nappies. She has to be good with money, do some heavy lifting, sort out minor repairs and be emotionally resilient. If she can't do all that, she's sadly lacking.

You'd think these increasing demands for mutual perfection would put an impossible strain on relationships and send the separation rate through the roof, but strangely enough that hasn't happened. People obviously like the idea of dumping the straitjackets and being a bit more versatile, they rise to the challenge rather than dragging their heels.

Though I must say that Jenny and I, despite both of us trailing years of anti-sexist conditioning, are not too hard on each other. Of course we want to show we're not slaves to laughable stereotypes, but we do recognise our natural limitations.

I don't seriously expect Jenny to retile the kitchen when I wouldn't dare to attempt it myself. Nor does she ask me to whip up a three-course dinner for twenty when women themselves would panic at the prospect. But wherever we can push the boundaries back and make our skills more interchangeable, we do.

We're not quite Superspouses but we're moving in the right direction. And our parents are already looking pretty prehistoric.

* Heterosexual relationships obviously. I can't speak for anyone of a different persuasion....

To Sydney by bus

Being a bit of a greenie as you know, and concerned about the toxic effects of air travel, I was interested to hear of OzBus, which is running trips direct from London to Sydney overland, taking three months to complete the journey.

I also noticed the story because one third of the 38 passengers for today's departure are Irish (plus one third Australian and one third British).

The trip costs a whopping £3750, which is some seven times the price of a scheduled flight from London to Sydney, but of course allows you to see all the spectacular scenery rather than just flying over it.

However if you're imagining some luxury journey along the lines of a Mediterranean cruise or the Orient Express, think again. This is strictly a DIY, rough-and-ready enterprise where not much is laid on and you're expected to muck in and help organise it all.

When the bus comes to its overnight halt in Nepal or Laos, forget five star hotels or room service. It'll probably be a campsite where you have to put up your own tent (tent and sleeping equipment not provided, by the way), then help with food-shopping, cooking, washing-up and anything else that needs doing. Oh, and cleaning the bus as well.

It's all designed to encourage camaraderie and make the trip more fun, says OzBus owner and founder Mark Creasey. As he puts it, "Bush camping allows us to return to the great outdoors and really be at one with nature."

I'm not sure about that. Be at one with the frying pan and the sleeping bag perhaps, but nature's just as close to a holiday chalet in the Rockies. Still, if you want to avoid an identikit tourist package and have a more down-to-earth experience, this looks just the thing.

Oh, I forgot to mention, the bus doesn't look too comfortable either. It's hardly your state of the art touring coach, more one of those rather beaten-up old rural buses on its last tour of duty before the scrapyard. But maybe the picture gives a false impression....

Photo: a village in Nepal

Baby blues

I really don't understand why some women are so desperate to have children they resort to round after round of gruelling and costly fertility treatments to get them.

Isn't it enough to have tried for pregnancy, failed, and made new plans that don't include children? For a startlingly large number of women (and men), it isn't.

Being childless seems to leave them with such a black hole, such a sense of something missing, they just can't accept the situation.

The average child-seeking couple spends £4782 on fertility treatments, even though only 47% of women end up with a baby*. Some couples take on mortgage-size debts to carry on with treatment to the bitter end, they are so unwilling to admit defeat and their physical failings.

I'm baffled as to what prompts this raging obsession. I suppose some women are still convinced they're not a real woman unless they've borne a child. Or it's a variation on plastic surgery - they just can't accept their 'flawed body' and have to put it right. Or else it's the men putting pressure on them to continue the family or they'll find another woman who can.

And surprise surprise, many women feel guilty that their hedonistic lifestyles may have jeopardised their ability to get pregnant, while most men don't think about that and still assume it must be the woman's fault - even though 30% of all fertility problems in Northern Ireland are due to male infertility*.

It also annoys me that 23% of infertility treatment is paid for by the NHS, when the UK is hardly under-populated in the first place. I could think of some much better uses for the money - improving hospital hygiene and wiping out superbugs, for a start. Cleaning not weaning!

* Red magazine survey, quoted in the Belfast Telegraph 5.9.07

Old gold

As a fully paid-up sexagenarian, I'm glad ageism is a hot topic nowadays, with new laws recently passed on the subject. But there are still some hoary old stereotypes about oldies. To mention but a few:

(1) They can't do anything active any more, they're physically over the hill. Actually we're getting so adventurous doctors are seeing more and more sports injuries among oldies who just refuse to slow down.

(2) They're set in their ways, stuck in the past. But there are loads of Silver Surfers glued to their computers and grey-haired militants rooting for radical issues like global warming and third-world poverty.

(3) They're grumpy and cranky, all they do is moan. Tell that to the sprightly volunteers in the charity shop or the beaming grandma looking after her adored grandchildren.

(4) They never have sex, the vital juices have dried up. On the contrary, oldies are having so much sex with so many partners there's been a big increase in STIs in that age group. Viagra has a lot to answer for!

(5) They hate young people. Not if they have the charming grandchildren just mentioned. Not if they're going to evening classes full of youngsters. Not if they're avidly reading books by young authors.

(6) They're afraid of everything and everyone and scared to go out the front door. My 85 year old mother has just set off on a coach holiday to the South of France, on her own, and expects to have a whale of a time. There are oldies doing parachute jumps, climbing mountains and sailing around the world.

Certainly I surprise myself with my complete non-resemblance to any of the ageist clichés, feeling and acting much the same as I did ten or twenty years ago. I still work, I'm still healthy, my brain's still buzzing, I'm still insatiably curious about all sort of things. If I hear one more reference to doddery pensioners playing bingo, I think I might lash out with my razor-tipped zimmer frame. Clapped-out oldies? Harumph.

Going native

The Canadian authorities make a big thing of respecting the First Nations (i.e. the indigenous peoples) by appreciating their culture, upholding their human rights and not treating them as second-class citizens.

But this public stance seems to be at odds with the First Nations sections in museums and other tourist attractions which strike me not as respectful but as somewhat condescending and insulting.

I visited several of these displays in Vancouver and Victoria, expecting to find explanations of how sophisticated and intelligent these people really are and how they could teach us a thing or two about our supposedly superior 21st century culture.

But surprisingly all I found was collections of artefacts and tools and descriptions of traditional ceremonies and rituals, which to me suggested not sophisticated human beings but goofy dullards incapable of anything more than weaving rugs, carving totem poles and observing mindless superstitions about giant ravens and supernatural frogs.

Is this really the message I should be getting or am I missing something?

I kept wondering what they thought about the big questions - what is the meaning of life, why are we on this planet, how can we live together in peace and harmony? - but I didn't find any answers, or even any sign they thought about such things at all.

I couldn't help supposing that underneath the public honouring of the First Nations, there is a furtive counter-agenda to depict them as quaint and laughable rather than worthy of serious consideration and esteem. If so, it's succeeding brilliantly and misleading an awful lot of people.

Still, better keep an eye on them ravens, they might be up to something.

The Rocky Mountaineer

We spent the last two days of our holiday on the Rocky Mountaineer train, which winds nearly 700 miles through the Rocky Mountains from Vancouver to Calgary.

As you can imagine, it's just mile after mile of breathtaking scenery - soaring mountains, some topped with snow and glaciers; sprawling lakes rolling on endlessly; wild rivers tumbling between sheer rockfaces; and stretches of quasi-desert where trees and vegetation all but disappear.

I kept looking down or looking up to see landscapes so extraordinary I thought I must be dreaming. The train just climbs up and up until at one point it's 5,500 feet above sea level and still the mountains are streaking to 10,000 feet.

There're two levels of service on the train - Gold Leaf and Red Leaf. On Gold Leaf you get cordon bleu food, extra personal attention and higher windows so the scenery is more visible. We opted for Red Leaf, which was just fine - we still had delicious food in large quantities and didn't miss any of the scenery. And it costs about half as much.

The only weak link on the trip was the overnight stay at Kamloops, a hideously ugly town with second-rate hotels that made us glad to be back on the train in the morning. With some 2000 passengers from three trains all stopping overnight, the company needs to find much better accommodation, maybe by building its own deluxe hotel.

Some passengers think the train is too slow but I enjoyed the leisurely, laid-back crawl that gives you time to appreciate the most dazzling sights without feeling rushed.

Even on this idyllic ride, the effects of global warming are evident. Huge swathes of pine forest are being killed by the ubiquitous pine beetle, which up till now was largely wiped out by plummeting winter temperatures but is now thriving in the much warmer climate. If it can't be controlled, much of the forest cover will vanish in a few years and with it the massive timber industry.

It's a sobering thought that our flights to Canada and back contributed to this carnage. But what do we do instead - stay home and watch the telly? We may all be facing some hard choices before long.

PS: Have just read that the spruce bark beetle is also chomping its way through Alaska's Kenai Peninsula (south of Anchorage).

Vancouver

Yes, I'm finally back from my travels with Jenny in Western Canada. Mainly we were in Vancouver, which is every bit as spectacular as people told us. Definitely the equal of Sydney in terms of the setting - on a huge river estuary with four massive mountain ridges directly opposite. Not only that but the city has an enormous wooded park (Stanley Park) the size of the city centre on a peninsular jutting out into the estuary. We were just stunned by the unbelievable beauty of it all.

Of course there were one or two flies in the ointment - no city's that perfect - so here are the pros and cons. The pros: the sensational setting; a city centre small enough to walk around; the cultural diversity (a lot of Asians and gays in particular); a great sense of vitality and creativity; Starbucks' unbeatable coffee and pastries; a superb mega-bookstore, Chapters; Stanley Park; and the vertiginous cable car ride up Grouse Mountain.

The cons: limited eating-out possibilities - a complete lack of vegetarian or Italian restaurants, but plenty of junk food like hot dog stalls; a slight frostiness from the locals towards non-locals - maybe because we English are associated with the often detested Americans; and the way so many beautiful old traditional houses had been cleared for skyscrapers and apartment blocks. But that's not much to complain about.

We also spent a few days in Victoria on Vancouver Island, which we definitely wouldn't recommend - completely overwhelmed by tourists and decrepit oldies who could hardly stagger down the streets. A sort of giant old folks home with a seaview. The one unexpected highlight was a brilliant exhibition on (of all things!) the sinking of the Titanic at the British Columbia Museum.

To wind up, we spent two days on the train that goes right through the Rocky Mountains from Vancouver to Calgary. Another amazing experience. But more about that in the next instalment....

PS: My suitcase got lost somewhere between Calgary and Belfast. Will I ever see it again? And it contained some lovely clothes Jenny bought in Calgary!! Fingers crossed it's not too far away....

The Life of Riley

It so often seems that other people have much better lives than yourself, that they're gliding through everything effortlessly while you're struggling against the odds and meeting one obstacle after another.

Parents think couples without children have got it easy, workers think the bosses have got it easy, and Joe and Joanna Public think celebs have got it easy.

But what do we really know about other people's lives when usually all we see is the carefully crafted facade they present to the world? People go to amazing lengths to conceal the awkward truth and pretend they're coping brilliantly with life's difficulties.

They don't reveal the panic attacks or the mortgage arrears or the husband's porn stash or the son's pyromania. They don't reveal their constant fear that their job is beyond their abilities or their social skills are lacking or they're totally incompetent parents.

What's really tragic though is when someone is so convinced that other people have far superior lifestyles they go to desperate lengths to imitate them.

Like the bank clerk who embezzles thousands of pounds to get a swish house and a flashy car, or parents who bankrupt themselves in the belief that a £20,000 wedding outdoes a £2,000 one. Or teenage girls who spend meagre wages on extortionate designer clothes to feel like jetsetting supermodels.

And even when people know full well that the imagined Life of Riley is more like Dead End Gulch, they still pursue the dream regardless. We all know by now that many supermodels are on a gruelling treadmill of dieting, purging, exercising and plastic surgery, yet there are plenty of young girls aching to be in their shoes and hating what they see as the mediocrity and pointlessness of their existing lives. The golden images have a life of their own.

Bumptious tourists

In principle tourism is a good thing - visit new countries, find out how other people live, broaden our horizons. Unhappily some tourists behave so badly they just give tourism a bad name.

The boom in low-cost flights is a double-edged sword here. It means we can all travel around more easily, but it also means rowdy yobs descending on unsuspecting cities.

Places like Prague are being beseiged by out-of-control hen and stag parties that take over the streets and terrify the residents, leaving a trail of bottles, vomit and vandalism.

Too many tourists are blithely insensitive to the locals, ignoring their customs and culture, expecting everything to be just the way it is in Sheffield or Swansea and demanding instant service and attention.

They commonly regard the indigenous cuisine as repulsive and insist loudly on fish and chips or beefsteak, all the while making snide remarks about foreign tastes.

Then there are the giant coaches manoeuvring painfully down tiny streets to disgorge packs of edgy sightseers, frantically snapping everything in sight before rushing off to the next fashionable destination.

Personally when I'm a tourist somewhere I do my best to blend in with my new surroundings and be as unobtrusive as possible, rather than sticking out like a sore thumb, throwing my weight around and making absurd demands.

I also try to absorb as much of the local culture as I can - buying newspapers, watching TV, talking to residents, trying to understand what the big issues are, what preoccupies people, the typical lifestyles and aspirations.

If you're just going to breeze in and indulge yourself every which way, taking no interest at all in the place itself, why go there to begin with? You might as well have gone to Brighton. Or booked a fortnight at the travel agent's office. A bit more respect and a bit less arrogance wouldn't go amiss.

(Note for those of you who read wisewebwoman's excellent two posts on pornography - she has just posted the third part, which is deeply sad and sobering)

The coy of sex

We like to think we're so sexually liberated nowadays, happy to talk about anything without a murmur. Gone is the old prudery of our strait-laced parents.

Well, not quite. A new report says over a third of Britons find talking with a new partner about condoms so embarrassing it puts them off using one. And over 40 per cent think mentioning them is a sexual turn-off.

The Family Planning Association, which did the research, is surprised at this reticence in the midst of a 'highly sexualised society'. It's also surprised that the young are just as inhibited as the old.

But there's a world of difference between the public flaunting of sex, with salacious stories and images in newspapers and on TV screens, and people's private lives, where dealing with anything outside the romantic norm of spontaneous orgasmic bliss can be perplexing and awkward.

Who wants to discuss their imperfect bodies or sexual infections or impotence? We feel like the party pooper at the sparkling soiree, sabotaging something precious. Easier just to get on with it, swallow our doubts and hope for the best.

We think that if we mention too many negatives, it might even frighten the other person away and snuff out the relationship before it started. Even if we feel bold enough to handle the stumbling blocks, can our partner do the same?

This sexual coyness is something we have to solve though. Among other things, it's feeding the rapid spread of sexual infections which blight so many lives. That lingering stiff upper lip needs to be loosened fast.

Holiday fibs

Holidays are now such a status symbol that people invariably lie about how things went, making out they were dream-perfect even if they were actually the holiday from hell.

Those typical conversations about what it was like are not all they seem. Sometimes you need a special phrase book to decode the rose-tinted accounts. For example:

"So how was the flight?"

"Brilliant. We only paid a fiver each and then we got an upgrade." (Diabolical. We had to pay £50 for excess baggage, we took off four hours late and my suitcase was stolen)

"So what was the hotel like?"

"Brilliant. Massive room overlooking the Bay of Whatsit. Cordon bleu food. Complimentary room service." (Appalling. They were still building it. The room was hamster-size. We had food poisoning for three days)

"Good weather?"

"Brilliant. Sunshine all the way. Almost too hot for comfort. And the week before it was torrential rain. Luck of the devil." (Horrendous. Permanent downpour. Whole area was flooded. We had to hire a boat. My new camera fell overboard)

Jenny and I are actually quite frank about our holidays. If they're disappointing, it's not our fault, after all, it's down to other people's cock-ups. And we don't see holidays as status symbols, just as a bit of fun and novelty. We happily admit to being let down by Verona, underwhelmed by Connemara and unimpressed by Amsterdam.

Other people are amazed by our honesty, as if it's a breach of etiquette or a mental aberration. But who are they fooling with their glittering fibs? They forget we've all been on the same boat, or should I say unhygienic cruise ship. Why not come clean?

Gay relations

Gays in Derry are preparing for the Foyle Pride Festival from August 13, in a more tolerant atmosphere than a few years ago when homophobic attacks were appallingly common.

The photo shows the famous Free Derry Wall getting a bright pink makeover for the six-day festival, to recognise that the Civil Rights Movement also includes gays.

Says festival organiser David McCartney: "The last time the festival was in Derry, five years ago, there were 93 homophobic attacks in the city that year. This year there have been just two, which shows the change of attitudes towards the gay community."

But an article in the Belfast Telegraph says many gays in Northern Ireland still haven't come out to their parents for fear of the reaction. And many parents haven't told the truth about their gay children to anyone outside the family for the same reason.

Cathy Falconer, 49, who lives in Derry, has written a book 'Good As You' about 11 mothers' reactions to gay sons. She says she couldn't speak to fathers because they found the subject much harder to deal with and talk about.

She explains how her son Barry, 25, came out to her almost eight years ago, and how shocked and upset she was at the time, before she gradually accepted it. She still fears other people's reactions because the old myths about homosexuality are so strong.

So I hope the Festival is well supported, not just by gays but by the whole population of Derry, to show that the familiar stigma is finally lifting.

PS: Graffiti has been sprayed on the wall but it has now been repainted.

Photo courtesy of the Irish Times

Dealing with drugs

When the media love to scare us all witless about the horrors of drugs, and how a few grams of skunk or cocaine will turn us into psychotic beasts, it takes a hardy soul to defy the shrieking headlines and say all drugs should be legalised.

But why not? It's been pointed out often that most drug-related tragedies actually stem from illegality, and many of the deaths, overdoses, collapses and addictions would not occur if drugs were openly available.

It's illegality that means drugs are taken furtively in unhygienic conditions that cause infections. It means dosage and quality are uncertain and drugs can be contaminated with serious poisons.

It means that in an emergency people are loathe to seek help because they're doing something forbidden. And it means accurate information about drugs and their physical effects is hard to obtain.

What's more, if it all went legal, the unscrupulous drug-dealers who sell polluted products at inflated prices would have to shut up shop or clean up their act, and they'd have to pay the government some tax instead of just lining their pockets.

But at the end of the day, drug use isn't a legal issue, it's a health issue. You can't stop people taking them, but what you can do is ensure they take them in conditions that safeguard their health and don't lead to illness, unhappiness and isolation. Conditions in which they aren't treated as pariahs and outcasts but given all the advice, support and information they need to indulge their tastes safely and not recklessly.

Most of the tough talk comes from ill-informed hotheads who've never tried the drugs in question and are swayed by rawcous hard-liners - even when they're happily consuming dangerous drugs like alcohol and tobacco themselves.

But draconian laws aren't stopping the explosion in drug use. We need a better remedy for pain and distress than law courts and jail cells.

(For the record, the only banned drugs I've taken are cannabis and LSD. I've never tried any others, mostly because I've never been offered them - what a sheltered life I lead)

PS: Very interesting programme on Channel 4 on August 3 by Dr Colin Froggatt arguing that heroin should be decriminalised and freely prescribed. He says this has been a big success in Switzerland. Thanks for the link, Bellulah.

Diet deceit

We posh middle class folk like to think we eat much more healthily than those frightful working class oiks, but it's not true. We've been exposed as hypocrites and frauds.

New surveys* have revealed that well-off households have equally unhealthy diets and their children are actually more likely to be overweight or obese. So much for that little delusion of superiority.

We middle class types like to make out we're busy stuffing ourselves with fruit and vegetables and wholesome, unadulterated food untainted by heart-clogging nasties, but we're a load of charlatans.

We come on so virtuous and sensible, but on the quiet we ignore those impressive bowls of grapes and peaches displayed for our visitors and sneak into the cupboards for a few squishy cakes and ready meals.

We say screw virtuous, I'm pissed off, today's a shambles, nothing's going right and I'm going to eat that entire packet of luxury chocolate brownies because then I'll feel much, much better.

Or we think, I've spent all day eating sensibly, I'm crammed with stuff the experts approve of, now I'm entitled to relax and have something unhealthy, I've earnt it. Where's that box of raisin fudge?

Even if we manage to avoid these noxious titbits at home, we get offered them outside. All my relatives believe a cup of tea goes hand in hand with the best of the local bakery, decked out with as much cream, sugar, fat and icing as possible. A blanket refusal is of course the height of rudeness, so a few tactful mouthfuls have to be consumed.

So I'm hardly surprised by the revelations of hidden hypocrisy in those swish suburban avenues. There's many a grubby secret behind the fragrant net curtains. Dietary deceit is the least of them - but that's another story.

* International Journal of Obesity and Food Standards Agency (UK)

Masculinity

I've never felt masculine in my life, and I've never felt the urge to be like other men. Right from childhood, they seemed to have nothing at all in common with me except their bodies.

I was always indifferent to the stereotype masculine interests of cars, booze, gadgets and sport. Even girls didn't register very much except as potential friends or enemies. Sex hardly crossed my mind until my twenties, I was that innocent.

It never occurred to me to see male celebrities as role models I should imitate, just because they happened to be the same sex. Their maleness was no more significant to me than their fingernails or what they ate for breakfast.

Most of the time I've just gone my own sweet way without ever thinking about masculinity. But every so often I'm in some situation where it seems appropriate to 'act masculine' or 'act like a man' and I have to rack my brains as to what that means.

Sometimes it's obvious enough - wearing a skirt or putting on make-up wouldn't go down too well - but sometimes I'm baffled. Usually it's some kind of emergency and I'm clearly expected to be a master plumber or an income tax wizard or just a tough he-man who can casually break down a door or see off some unsavoury loiterer.

When I tell people I'm utterly unmasculine, they usually say 'Oh, but you're so male when you do so-and-so.' I explain that I wasn't being masculine, I was just doing what the occasion demanded or what seemed sensible. I repair the garden fence not because I'm a bloke but because I don't want it to fall to bits.

It's also puzzling that people expect me to defend other men because I'm one of them. Shouldn't I be loyal to my sex? But I don't see why I should excuse someone who behaves badly because of what's between his legs. It makes no more sense than rooting for fellow spectacle-wearers or right-handers.

I think a lot of men feel secretly unmasculine, or even feminine, but not being brave enough to resist, they conform to the classic masculine patterns. How many men slouched in the pub debating the pros and cons of four-wheel drive would rather be trying on dresses or cooking lasagna or ballroom dancing (or even something gender-neutral like campaigning for cheap nurseries)? The answer might surprise you.

Daring and doubt

One potential break-up factor I've never mentioned is adventurousness - when one person is always keen to try something new or act on impulse, and the other is more cautious.

It causes friction between Jenny and I from time to time, Jenny being the adventurous one and me being the one who puts a spanner in the works, finding lots of excellent reasons why her idea isn't so good, or at least not right now.

Sometimes this works out well, when we realise later it would have been a big mistake to go ahead with something - quitting a job, or moving house, or inviting someone to stay. But at other times it causes a serious rift, when Jenny is passionate about something and I'm not at all convinced.

We've been at odds the last few months over whether to improve the house. Jenny's dead keen on a loft conversion and rear extension while I've been voicing my doubts.

We've finally agreed to go ahead, but not without some rather emotional scenes and bitter outbursts. Luckily we always manage to work through our splits and come out safely the other end, but sometimes we wonder if it's a bust-up too far.

Things would be a lot easier if I was as adventurous as Jenny, and we agreed on things more quickly, but it simply isn't in my character. We just have to hope our relationship is strong enough to take the strain. Which so far it has been.

(And in case you're wondering, Jenny is looking over my shoulder and agrees this is a fair and accurate portrayal etc etc)

Re my posts on prostitution: I liked these thought-provoking notes on the related subject of pornography (one and two) by wisewebwoman.

Baby shambles

If the NHS is getting better all the time, as the government claims, why did pregnant 22 year old Karen Shaw have to be airlifted from Northern Ireland to a Scottish hospital because neo-natal cots weren't available?

This was hardly a rare medical condition that took the Causeway Hospital by surprise, with the resources needed simply unplanned for.

Karen was expecting twins and her waters broke seven weeks prematurely - as happens frequently to mothers-to-be. But the hospital was unable to cope and had to send her elsewhere.

Her stepfather Paul Parry said she had been "terrified and traumatised" and criticised the local health service as "underfunded and farcical".

Karen has already lost one child after a miscarriage so naturally she was scared of losing the twins. She nearly lost them early in the pregnancy.

The hospital didn't explain the lack of neo-natal cots but claimed there was no risk as two specialist midwives accompanied her on the flight.

But you have to ask why the cots weren't available when premature birth is so common and maternity services are one of the major elements of the NHS.

How can such a basic failure occur when so many billions have just been pumped into the health service? And isn't it ironic that the airlift across the Irish Sea (over 100 miles) probably cost more than the missing cots?

PS: Karen has now given birth to healthy twin boys.

Photo: Karen Shaw