Old and boring

Are all older men terminally boring? One journalist thinks so, and she's caused a bit of a row among other journos who happen to be older men. How dare she, they fume. What a cheek!

Personally, I don't know that many older men, so I couldn't say if she's right or not. But speaking for myself, I'm fizzing with wit and wisdom and I have fascinating opinions on every subject* - well, perhaps not negative entropy or mulching techniques.

But Liz Hodgkinson, who clearly has met a large number of older men, concludes that they are mostly humourless, tongue-tied, ill-at-ease, lifeless and dull as ditchwater. Older women on the other hand are firing on all cylinders and excellent company. And they're usually talking to the other women because it's much more fun.

"I often wish I could invite the female half of a couple to lunch and leave the husband at home" she says. What should be an enjoyable social occasion can easily become "excruciatingly painful" as the men have so little to say.

I find it hard to believe older men are so lacklustre. Do they not enjoy gossip? Or setting the world to rights? Or just recalling that crazy person in the supermarket? Or are they simply intimidated by all these confident, articulate women?

I can think of older men I know who are indeed monosyllabic and brain-dead. But I know others who are bundles of energy, talking nineteen to the dozen and taking a keen interest in everything around them.

I need some feedback here. What's your experience of older men? Are most of them spent forces or are they full of life? Is Liz Hodgkinson right or is she just man-bashing for the sake of a good story?

* No false modesty here....

Boys only

My schooling was entirely single-sex, including five years at boarding school where my contact with girls was non-existent. Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing I've never quite decided.

It meant I was able to focus on my studies without the distraction of miniskirted females checking me out in the corridors and classrooms. It meant there was no feverish competition with the other boys to impress the girls.

But it also meant I had little experience of the opposite sex and how they differed from boys. It meant there was no encouragement to be emotionally sensitive or to be aware of things that boys traditionally reject as effeminate.

So was I deprived or didn't it really matter? Did I grow up unable to communicate properly with women, unable to understand them, permanently burdened with an arrogant, thick-skinned masculinity?

I must say when I started my first job on a local newspaper, I was very bemused by all the women, who were like some exotic species I'd never met before. It took me quite a while to get used to them and work out how they expected me to behave. It also took me a while to get up the self-confidence to acquire my first girlfriend.

Later I moved to London and was engulfed by the tsunami that was the Women's Liberation Movement. I was confronted in every direction by 57 varieties of feminist thinking and demands, and in a few months I learnt more about women than I'd discovered in my first 18 years. Relationships with women suddenly became much more straightforward and comprehensible and from then on I was always acutely aware of the female perspective in every situation.

So no, I don't think my single-sex schooling did me any lasting harm. I guess what really counts is not whether a school is mixed-sex but how intensely you're exposed to the opposite sex and their take on life once you've left school. And how willing you are to embrace it and benefit from it.
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Ah yes, where was I? Jenny and I were on holiday in Dumfriesshire in Scotland. Not quite as scenic or cultural as we were expecting, but we had fun exploring a part of Scotland we'd never seen before.

Inner demons

We all have inner demons we spend our lives wrestling with. Either we find ways of taming them and coming to terms with them, or they become so powerful they drag us under and destroy us.

Most of my inner demons have been around since I was young, some have appeared more recently. But over the years I've managed to keep them corralled well enough for other people not to be too aware of them.

People often get the impression I'm a sanguine, unruffled, confident sort of guy, seldom agitated by anything. The truth is rather different.

I worry about all sorts of things: the future, old age, money, social events, not having a job, not having enough friends. Darkness disturbs and depresses me. Bad dreams send me into irrational panics.

I fret about my identity. I doubt myself. Am I over-sensitive? Am I not sensitive enough? Am I too feminine, too eccentric, too timid, too flippant, too stingy, too aloof? Am I opinionated or am I wishy-washy?

I fear my life is horribly precarious. I'm afraid it could collapse at any moment without careful planning and organising. Just neglect a few little details and it'll be like pulling at a loose thread. Everything will unravel in seconds.

At least I'm not an alcoholic or a drug addict or a helpless gambler. But nagging anxiety can turn into an equally ferocious demon if it's not dampened down and kept in its place.

Many of us don't like to discuss our private demons. We think, nobody will understand me, they'll think I'm a crazy neurotic, they'll just tell me to get a grip, they'll never speak to me again. Or we simply find it too embarrassing or daring or self-indulgent. We think we're the only person in the world with this peculiar tendency, we don't want everyone to know we're a total freak.

So we keep it strictly to ourselves, hide it away and hope nobody can spot any tell-tale signs, any behavioural twitches, the psychological equivalent of visible panty line.

Now if you'll excuse me, that's quite enough self-exposure for the time being. I must go and powder my nose.
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I won't be blogging for a few days, but I'll be back soon and then all will be explained!

Handy hints

Okay girls, if you're going on a work trip for a few days, make sure your man is well looked-after while you're away. Or he may get jolly cross and give you a smack-bottom when he gets back!

A global health care company, AXA ICAS, gave out advice to its women employees on keeping the family happy while they deserted their domestic duties.

But it wasn't quite the success they hoped for. So many women complained it was patronising and ridiculous that they had to hurriedly withdraw it and apologise.

Some of the helpful tips:

- Cook and freeze all meals before departure
- Leave 'I love you' notes for your husband
- Hide some gifts before you go
- Record some bedtime stories for your children

The most typical response was "It's a business trip, not trekking the fucking Andes". Women were not impressed by the assumption that their menfolk, the poor helpless, vulnerable little darlings, needed some intensive hand-holding while they were busy closing deals in Frankfurt.

I imagine most women would instantly have drawn up a slightly different list of handy hints. For example:

- You can survive without me. You won't die of starvation or domesticity.
- If you want an evening meal, you know where the recipe books are. Or there's this great new invention, the takeaway.
- If you're feeling horny, you know where to find it. In your underpants.
- The washing machine is the large white thing located in the utility room.
- The carpet fairy will not magically remove the cake crumbs and cigarette ash. This requires what is known in the trade as a hoover.
- Don't bother with the woman next door. You may think she fancies you, but actually she thinks you're an ugly bastard.
- By the way, I've left you and I'm not coming back.

Or something along those lines. The only thing they would be happy to cook and freeze is probably the hapless AXA employee who thought he was being so helpful to all those clueless girls.

Mysteries of friendship

Even at my grand old age, friendship is still a big mystery. How is that we can click with some people instantly, while with others there's no spark whatever?

How remarkable it is when I've met someone and straightaway there's something flowing between us, some vigorous connection as if there are no personal barriers and we might have known each other for years.

Even if you don't meet for months, as soon as you do it's like you saw each other yesterday and conversation comes easily and naturally as if it never stopped. You simply pick up where you left off as if you merely paused for a cup of coffee.

With other people that psychic "ping" just never happens, however much I'd like it to. We can talk about the most intimate subjects without any actual intimacy. We can be utterly frank but there's still an invisible boundary between us, as if I'm talking to a doctor or a therapist.

I may know someone for 20 years, I may have shared all sorts of experiences with them, but still I don't feel close to them, there's a hovering sense of reserve and distance despite everything.

I can meet someone and think they would be a wonderful friend, they have some sort of quality that immediately attracts me. I do everything I can to ignite a friendship, to get something going between us, but somehow it never works. We meet up occasionally, we chat, we share things, but it never makes that final leap to long-term devotion.

How lucky you are if you have a handful of really close friends, a select few you get on with effortlessly, a seamless communication with no restraints. It's a rare thing in a world of distrust and caution.

The toll of 'honour'

How can a man kill a woman simply on the grounds that she has sullied the family's "honour"? And how can so many people condone it as a religious tradition that can't be interfered with?

It's worrying that even in Britain there are now regular cases of honour killings, a practice that has been imported from other countries where it is rife.

There are estimated to be up to 20,000 such killings every year around the world, and many more brutal punishments short of murder. The offences that amount to "dishonour" are shockingly varied. It would be hard for any independent woman to avoid them. They include:

- Being raped
- Having a relationship with an unsuitable person (wrong religion, tribe, caste)
- Unmarried pregnancy
- Befriending boys
- Adultery (even if your husband is dead)
- Choosing your own husband
- Claiming a man's inheritance
- Leaving your husband
- Sex before marriage
- Not marrying your dead husband's brother
- Alleged prostitution
- Inappropriate dress
- "Western" behaviour

We don't realise just how lucky we are in Britain that all these perfectly normal activities aren't seen as "dishonouring" families but are at the very most described as unwise, reckless or unfortunate.

How lucky we are too that the authorities take honour killings seriously and act against those involved, as opposed to other countries where a blind eye is routinely turned.

And how lucky again that unofficial punishments for dishonour like rape*, acid attacks, stonings, lashings, facial mutilation, forced suicide or being set on by dogs, are simply not tolerated but prompt contempt and disbelief.

Despite those blinkered folk who maintain feminism is no longer needed, honour killings make it abundantly clear that many women are still struggling for the most elementary freedoms.

* Yes, you can be raped for allowing yourself to be raped.

Unwelcome guests

Are you squeamish? Fastidious? Super-clean? Then look away now. Because bedbugs are on the rise across the world, infesting the most unlikely places.

Reports of bedbugs are increasing by around 28 per cent every year. They're plaguing many cities, the worst affected being New York.

In the Big Apple, prestigious office blocks, cinemas and shops have had to close while the bugs are routed. Even a branch of the lingerie chain Victoria's Secret had to shut.

Some British hotels are now using sniffer dogs to detect the intrepid insects. Dogs can find bedbugs in three minutes, much quicker than we humans.

Most people don't realise that they can appear not just in beds but in furniture generally, which means they're also being found in children's nurseries and schools. They often find their way into people's luggage.

They cause painful itching, nasty bites, allergic reactions and of course insomnia. And no doubt years of anxiety about strange beds.

Nobody's sure why they're suddenly proliferating. It could be resistance to pesticides, growing international travel, or just not dealing with outbreaks fast enough.

I've never been attacked by the horrible things, even though I've slept in plenty of strange beds in my time. But mosquitoes have had a good go at me.

It's yet another hazard if some casual sex is on the cards. Jump blissfully into bed with your new squeeze, and the bliss might rapidly turn into skin-scratching misery.

It's simple enough really. Just never go to bed. Stay up all night gambling, drinking and plotting revolution. Or sleep on a chair like Liz.
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I can't stop listening to: Catching A Tiger by Lissie Maurus

Wight trashed

Britain is today stunned and alarmed by the mysterious disappear-ance of the Isle of Wight and its 130,000 residents. Where the island should be, there is now only open sea.

The captain of the Southampton to Cowes ferry noticed at 8.13 am that the island was no longer there. "I couldn't believe my eyes" he said. "it was simply gone. I thought we must be sailing in the wrong direction but no, we were right on course. I tell you, I was knocked for six."

Relatives phoning island residents get an unobtainable signal. Brenda Pargeter of Leicester said "I'm desperately worried about my sister Betty. I've no idea whether she's alive or dead. How can an island just vanish?"

It seems there are no witnesses to the disappearance. It happened with no warning, in a matter of minutes. Police and Coastguard officers have mounted a massive search operation around the coasts of Britain, Ireland and France.

Already several theories have been put forward to explain the missing island.

* A sudden explosion ripped through it. But no debris has yet been found.
* It has drifted to another location. But this would happen slowly enough to be noticed.
* Collapsing foundations submerged it. But again, no debris or dead bodies have appeared.
* A powerful underwater vortex has sucked the island to the bottom of the sea.
* A colossal atmospheric force sucked it into the sky. It is now orbiting the earth.

The Association of British Travel Agents has advised holidaymakers with bookings on the island that in the event of it not reappearing in the next few days, full refunds will be made.

Anyone with information about the missing island is asked to contact Southampton Police urgently on 023 1010 2121.

Pic: where the island used to be

Hormone havoc

I've never experienced anything resembling the male menopause, and I'm dubious about its existence. But some doctors claim that 20 per cent of men will suffer from it eventually.

Not surprisingly, that rather astonishing figure comes from a doctor who makes his living from treating menopausal (andropausal?) men. Other doctors suggest a much lower figure of 2 per cent.

Given that the symptoms (fatigue, scattiness, insomnia etc) are supposed to result from lack of testosterone, and given that men's testosterone levels keep falling after the age of 40, surely if there really was such a condition practically every ageing male would have it?

Also, given that women have virtually no testosterone, shouldn't they be even more incapacitated and barely able to function? Or do women's hormones work differently?

But one man, Dan Hegarty (a doctor himself) claims his life was falling apart. He was nodding off at work, he was unable to read the paper, his marriage was failing. After topping up his testosterone levels, he says he got a new lease of life and all the signs of physical decline were rapidly reversed.

Well, it's hard to argue with that miraculous recovery. But how come I've never gone through any such physical collapse and at the grand old age of 63 my body still seems to be functioning pretty efficiently?

Is my body mysteriously compensating for my depleted male hormones or was Dr Hegarty really suffering from some sort of psychological loss of confidence and inertia which then righted itself?

All I know is that some doctors seem to be making an impressive income from identifying the andropause and treating men who've succumbed to it. Did I catch a whiff of snake oil?
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A Northern Ireland man applying for a nursing post in Australia was told he had to take an English language test. After protests from the Australian Nurses Federation, the test was waived. So what language did they think was spoken here? Irish? Welsh? Swahili?

Wild card

Female admirer: So what's your next post about, Nick?

Nick: I've got nothing more to say. I've said it all. Everything. I've covered all angles. Peeked in every window.

FA: Don't be silly. There must be hundreds of exciting and important things you've never even thought about.

Nick: Nope. They've all been aired. All my absurd neuroses, from A to Z. All my political dogmas, in mind-numbing detail. All my sexual fetishes, complete with lurid graphics.

FA: I don't remember anything about sexual fetishes. Are you sure about that? Give me some examples.

Nick: I'm sorry, but on legal grounds, for health and safety reasons, and to protect the privacy of individuals who're now in very prominent positions in public life, I can't make any further comments.

FA: How disappointing. You could have given us some fascinating insights into the dark corners of your tangled personality, the seamy undercurrents of your complex inner life.

Nick: I doubt it. I'm quite ordinary, really. I'm just your bog-standard bloke in the street, the man on the Clapham omnibus, the guy with the pie. Well, apart from the cross-dressing and the chicken impersonations, obviously.

FA: Obviously. But all these horrifying world events. The floods in Pakistan. The dwindling helium reserves. The sudden popularity of padded bras. You must have something to say about these extraordinary developments?

Nick: Nah, it's all been said much better by a thousand overpaid hacks. Why say it all again? You're not wearing a padded bra, I hope?

FA: Jeez, what do you take me for? I'm 100 per cent natural from top to bottom.

Nick: Sure, and the Pope's a Buddhist. Now if you'll excuse me, I think the guinea pig's eating my mascara.

Eye for an eye

If someone had attacked you so violently you ended up paralysed, would it be a fitting punishment for the attacker to be paralysed in return? An eye for an eye, as it were?

A man who was left crippled after being hit with a meat cleaver asked a Saudi judge to sentence his assailant to surgical paralysis. The judge is now getting medical advice on whether this would be possible, before he decides what sentence to pass.

The paralysis could be induced by severing the man's spinal cord.

Apart from the question of whether any criminal, however serious the offence, should be subjected to such a gruesome and debilitating punishment, it is extraordinary that the victim should have a say in what punishment is meted out.

In most countries this would be a matter strictly for the judge, precisely because the victim might demand something utterly barbaric.

It is extraordinary too that the traditional "eye for an eye" attitude is still seen as a sensible legal principle. If the real cause of the attack is a fit of uncontrolled anger, how is physical paralysis the solution? Surely it can only breed bitterness and more anger?

I also wonder what surgeon with any conscience or humanity could possibly agree to deliberately paralyse a presumably fit and healthy man, simply because a judge decides it is an appropriate punishment. How could he live with himself afterwards?

Lurking nasties

Goodness knows what's happened in the average hotel room before I occupy it, but I'm not too bothered. As long as it looks fairly clean and tidy, I'm not going to fret about all the nasty residues I might be unwittingly exposing myself to.

The fabulous Los Angelista just described a particularly unsavoury-looking hotel room she stayed in during a work trip. She said the bed looked so uninviting she actually slept on a chair rather than risk whatever might be living in the bed linen.

One of her commenters declared that most hotel rooms are so unhygienic (and he cites You Tube footage to prove it) he takes antiseptic wipes to disinfect every surface he's likely to use. He also puts the remote in a plastic bag and kips down in a sleeping bag rather than crawl between the sheets.

Well, this seems rather extreme to me, but who knows what horrible experiences he's had in the past, or what ghastly illness he's inadvertently acquired from seedier and grubbier guests?

Personally I've never contracted anything grisly after staying in a hotel (not even food poisoning), so I'm very sanguine about cleanliness standards. I wouldn't stay in a room that's visibly filthy but as long as it looks clean enough I'm not going to ask any questions. I'm certainly not giving the room an extra going-over on the off-chance that cholera or typhoid is incubating happily on the bidet.

Maybe I'm in the minority here. Maybe others are more germ-conscious than I am. I know there are plenty of women who still decline to sit on a toilet seat without a protective layer of tissues.

But I happen to believe my immune system is robust enough to resist the germs and toxins lurking mischievously in room 23's en-suite. As far as I'm concerned, they simply don't exist.
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Tuesday evening: I'm off to London for a couple of days to see my 88 year old mum. See you all again shortly.

Less is more

Buying things is so normal we're quite used to our homes being crammed with pretty bits and pieces, the latest gadgets, twenty handbags and a mountain of paperbacks. But suppose you were limited to just 100 personal possessions?

An American couple dissatisfied with their hard-working, hard-spending existence decided to take up the "100 items" challenge and drastically reduce their huge stack of belongings.

Tammy Strobel, who worked long hours for an investment business, was so unhappy being "caught in the work-spend treadmill" that she resolved to totally change her lifestyle. Her husband Logan Smith, a doctoral student, decided to do the same.

They gave lots of their possessions to charity. They got rid of their TV. They got rid of their two cars and bought bikes. They moved to a smaller studio flat with less room for stuff. Eventually they reached the target of just 100 items each. And they say they really do feel happier.

The sudden brake on spending has led to other unexpected benefits. They've paid off debts of $30,000. They have more money to travel. Ms Strobel has changed her job and works fewer hours. And she has time to volunteer for a non-profit organisation.

I'm impressed by their determination and their ability to change their way of life so radically. A houseful of stuff may be unnecessary but for most of us it's cosy and familiar and reassuring. The thought of losing practically all of it would be most alarming. Particularly the hundreds of much-loved books and the fabulous paintings and all the CDs that are virtually glued to my ears.

A smaller home would be hard to adapt to as well, now I'm used to so much space to stretch out in. Jenny and I would once again be tripping over each other and intruding on each other.

I suppose it makes a difference that we've never been the sort to keep up with the Joneses. We buy things because we genuinely want them and think they'll genuinely improve our lives. Which means it would also be harder to part with them. So we won't be taking up the "100 items" challenge just yet. Less is not yet more.

PS: Some brave souls have even given up their homes and now base their lives entirely on a few bits of technology like laptops, iPads and Kindles.

Pic: Tammy Strobel and Logan Smith

Needlework

I obviously missed my vocation. Tattooing is suddenly all the rage. Getting them, getting more of them, removing them. If I was a tattooist, I'd be doing very nicely.

I suppose it was the celebs who started the fashion, as usual. People like Pink, with tattoos all over the place. Now every Tom, Dick and Harriet is popping into the tattoo parlour to endure the agony of plonking a swallow on their shoulder, a snake on their ankle or "I love Susy" on their arm.

And once they've started, they're always tempted to add a second and a third. If they're hopelessly addicted they end up with every square inch of their body lavishly illustrated.

But there's always the risk that a few years down the line they decide the tattoo of King Kong or Dr Spock or Lara Croft was a big mistake. Or Susy has walked out and been replaced by Julie, who objects to being constantly reminded of Susy.

So the tattooists are in demand again, inflicting more pain as they laboriously remove the offending item and try to restore the decorated skin to its original state.

I've never been tempted by tattoos myself. When I was young they were associated with manual workers, heavy drinkers and hairy lesbians, but that wasn't what put me off. I just didn't like the idea of mutilating my skin for artistic purposes. I felt art belonged on canvas or photographic paper and not on the human body. I guess that's still my attitude.

I did once know a woman with extremely erotic tattoos on her buttocks. At least they were meant to be erotic, but I found them strangely off-putting. I couldn't help thinking of all the other men who had touched them and puzzled over them.

No, I like my skin just as it is, thanks. I intend to keep it that way.

Not quite married

Even though Jenny and I have been married for 15 years, we don't think of ourselves as married. We're still much more comfortable with the idea that we're cohabitees.

To me at any rate, the term marriage still implies all sorts of ugly expectations about roles and behaviour and duties which I don't go along with. The husband as breadwinner, the wife as housekeeper, obedience, submission, sex with the lights off, suburban sterility, you name it.

I know very well that all those stereotypes are out-of-date, and in theory marriages can be whatever you want them to be, but nevertheless just the thought of marriage gets all those preconceptions bubbling up and makes me feel instantly limited and put-upon.

Cohabitee on the other hand means nothing at all except living together. It doesn't imply anything about how you should behave, your lifestyle, the sort of home you live in, your domestic status. All it means is that you've chosen to live together, for whatever reason, because it's convenient or appealing.

It's entirely up to you how you live together. You're free to negotiate every little detail, from housework to sex, from organising to communicating, without any prior assumptions about what's traditional or appropriate. You can do whatever feels right for you, whatever comes naturally.

So whenever either of us accidentally mentions being married, or being a husband or wife, the other shudders and screeches and generally has conniptions. It's in bad taste, it's like farting at a dinner party or swearing in front of the vicar. It poisons the happy home.

The bit of paper's useful of course, financially and legally. But all the cultural baggage that goes with it - thanks but no thanks.

Loosening the reins

When I was young, it was still the custom for couples to get their parents' approval before they got married or engaged. Nowadays that would be considered laughable.

In the fifties and sixties, some parents would resort to anything to keep their beloved offspring out of the clutches of someone they deemed unsuitable - even locking them in the house. And in those days even smoking the odd joint or liking Mick Jagger could qualify as unsuitable.

There would be furious arguments between teenagers and parents about the freedom to choose your own girlfriend or boyfriend, and parents would claim the final say in the matter.

Thankfully that's all changed and most parents no longer assume the right to interfere in their children's relationships. They believe it's their children's decision, and if they make mistakes, then it's just a question of trying again with someone else. No big deal, and it's unlikely to ruin anyone's life.

Even cohabitation, which was still quite rare when I was growing up, is now considered not only totally normal but like marriage a matter for the couple and nobody else.

But some parents still try to influence their children's choices. They're convinced a relationship can only end in disaster and they have a duty to cut it short, even at the risk of their child snubbing them instead.

They object that the girlfriend or boyfriend is the wrong class, the wrong colour, a spendthrift or just a permanent loser. They think their child is too naive, too besotted, too young, too mixed-up. Their judgment is not to be trusted.

They still can't accept that their children have to make up their own minds and determine their own lives. They can't accept that the most unlikely relationships can prosper and survive despite everyone else's doubts. They can't quite cut the apron strings.

Future perfect

Could I really be afraid of the future? I decided to take the problem to my esteemed therapist Dr Melissa Flinch, at her luxurious consulting rooms in leafy South Belfast.

She offered me a herbal tea and an oatmeal cookie as I reclined in the well-padded armchair among a dense thicket of overgrown pot plants.

Nick: I'm afraid that I'm afraid of the future.

Melissa: Don't be silly. You can't be afraid of something so unbounded, so intangible. It's like being afraid of the weather, or speech, or a blank sheet of paper. You can only be afraid of something specific. Like spiders. Or flying.

Nick: But I'm afraid I'll be overtaken by some awful disaster in five years' time.

Melissa: Then you're just afraid of disaster. That's natural enough. But you're not afraid of some wonderful pleasure in five years' time, are you?

Nick: No, of course not.

Melissa: In fact, you must think pleasure is a lot more likely than catastrophe?

Nick: I suppose so.

Melissa: Well then, you're just a sunny optimist with occasional fits of pessimism. You allow for the very realistic possibility that you can't have pleasure 100 per cent of the time. Sometimes things go wrong. Sometimes they go very wrong. That's life, baby.

Nick: I guess you're right.

Melissa: Of course really you're just afraid of yourself. You're afraid of your inability to cope with any disaster that comes along. You're afraid of your own inadequacy, your own helplessness, your own confusion.

Nick: I'd never thought of it like that.

Melissa: Well, that's what I'm here for. I've seen a thousand tortured souls like yours. I know what's going on in your murky unconscious. I can unravel the tangled strands, lead you out of the psychic morass, restore clarity of thought.

Nick: What would I do without you?

Melissa: I shudder to think. That'll be £100 plus VAT. Mastercard as usual?

Nick: Cheap at the price.

I skipped happily down the front steps, the heavy burden lifted from my shoulders. All at once a rosy future beckoned.
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A new British survey says almost one person in five has consulted a counsellor or psychotherapist. Some 95% of those polled believe it is a good idea to seek counselling or psychotherapy for a problem before it gets out of hand, while 88% thought people might be happier as a result of doing so. Some 88% believe counselling and psychotherapy should be available to all on the NHS. This is a huge change in attitudes from six years ago.

The groping guru

If you thought Swami Korianda was just a wild flight of the imagination, think again. A self-proclaimed guru and healer who molested and raped numerous women has just been jailed for ten years.

Michael Lyons posed as the illustrious Mohan Singh, a spiritual sage who was skilled in osteopathy, chiropractic, acupuncture and nutrition.

He gathered plenty of followers from around the world, particularly women, who were taken in by his plausible manner and supposed esoteric wisdom.

But women who were given one of his special treatments often found that he would then casually feel them up or rape them.

His bizarre justifications for these attacks would be hilarious if they weren't also shockingly exploitative. He told one woman he was groping that he was "feeling her energy pulse." He explained to another that he was "enlightening her with his organic penis." Yet another was told he was "unblocking her chakras."

Even more disturbing was the fact that sometimes other women were not only witnessing the attacks but encouraging them, such was their naive trust in his sincerity.

Unfortunately such so-called gurus can set up their bogus cults and attract legions of gullible followers without any need for official vetting or approval. All they have to do is convince a few people of their spiritual powers and they in turn will convince thousands of others.

Those who are desperate to revitalise empty and dissatisfying lives will suspend disbelief and idolise such charlatans without asking too many questions about their abilities or claims.

Knowing he was wealthy enough to have homes in London, Manchester, Los Angeles and Miami would only be further evidence that his mystical knowledge had brought well-deserved material success.

It just proves once again that the best guide in life is your own inner instincts and not some glamorous, charismatic holy man who simply wants to get his rocks off. With you.

Pic: Michael Lyons

Fear of the future

My regular readers will know about my fear of darkness. But it's only just dawned on me that I also have a fear of the future*.

It came to me in a blinding flash. I was thinking about my various anxieties and realised they all had a common theme - I was nervous of what might happen in the years ahead.

I'm happy enough with the past. I don't regret anything I've done, and by and large I don't wish I had had a different sort of life. Fate has been kind to me and sent me wonderful opportunities and experiences. And the present is okay too. Whatever I'm doing, whoever I'm with, I just try to get the best out of it and make light of the negatives.

But the future's a different matter. It's so uncertain. There's no guarantee it'll be as pleasurable as the past, that things will go as smoothly, that I'll still be able to cope with whatever's flung at me. Disaster is as possible as good fortune. Unhappiness is as possible as joy.

I envy those who assume the future can only mean more pleasure, more success, more wisdom, a constant movement onwards and upwards. I just don't have that confidence, that faith.

Maybe it's because life has been so good to me up till now I'm afraid it can only be less good in the future. My luck can't hold forever. Maybe it's because I'm getting older and therefore likely to become physically frail or senile. Maybe it's because I know how easily some unexpected turn of events can shatter a comfortable existence.

Whatever the cause, I can't see any obvious way of combatting this fear. However much I tell myself there's no point in worrying about the future, precisely because it's unpredictable and unknowable, and because none of my imagined scary scenarios might actually happen, it doesn't stop the anxieties bubbling to the surface and stubbornly persisting. I can rationalise and intellectualise all I like, the rest of my brain takes no notice.

All I can do with this annoying syndrome, like all my other weird quirks, is to minimise it and stop it spoiling my enjoyment of life. I must let the future take care of itself.

PS: Maybe I'm going over the top here. If it's only the possible misfortunes I'm afraid of, and not the pleasures, maybe it's simply a fear of disaster. Or as the therapist Fritz Perls put it, catastrophic expectations. Or pessimism....

* Oddly enough, there seems to be no technical term for this particular phobia

Beyond vanity

When I was a boy, paying too much attention to your appearance was regarded as unseemly vanity. Particularly in the case of women. Tarting yourself up, using too much makeup, having fancy hairdos, and any sign of excessive primping and preening, was dismissed contemptuously as nothing but vanity.

Somewhere along the line that all changed and constant attention to your appearance was no longer vain but completely normal. Everyone wanted to "look their best" or "make the most of themselves". Naturally a woman wanted a more flattering hairstyle or a smoother complexion, anything less was "letting yourself go".

Now we've moved even farther and perfecting your appearance is not just normal but almost compulsory, a measure of self-worth. Spending huge amounts of time and money achieving the looks of a film star or a supermodel now shows that you value yourself, you believe in your potential and your talents.

Anyone who isn't feverishly botoxing, boosting their breast size, having a Hollywood or adding highlights clearly doesn't think much of themselves. They're content to be the sort of second-rate, unimportant low-achievers nobody ever notices. Improving your appearance is now as vital as taking a degree or buying your first home. It demands rigorous effort and single-mindedness.

For too many women (and increasing numbers of men) tarting yourself up is no longer a naughty pleasure but a daily treadmill, another domestic chore that mustn't be neglected. The innocent days of unseemly vanity are long gone.

How did this shift of emphasis take place? How did we slide so unwittingly into such an all-demanding obsession?
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The gap in life expectancy and health prospects between the rich and the poor in the UK is now greater than during the post World War One slump and the Great Depression. And that's after 13 years of a Labour government....