Pretend boys

In Afghanistan, I learn, it's common practice for girls to be disguised as boys - because boys are more prestigious.

Some girls spend their entire childhood pretending to be boys. Families without sons are often taunted and looked down on, regarded as failures. So desperate parents resort to trickery rather than admitting they only have daughters.

They justify their decision by saying they're just following the centuries-old tradition of Bacha Posh - disguising girls as boys - and avoiding being treated as social pariahs.

They also say that as "boys", their daughters will get experiences and opportunities that girls wouldn't get, thus giving them a better start in life.

But the fact is that they're colluding in a deeply sexist culture that sees boys as superior and girls as second-class citizens denied the same privileges. The collusion stifles any debate on increased freedom for girls and the ending of gender roles.

Criticis of Bacha Posh also point to the damaging effect on girls who feel they've missed essential childhood memories as well as losing their identity. After years denying who they really are, reverting to their true self can seem odd and unnatural.

Social traditions like these can be very powerful forces, maintained so insistently by so many people that they're almost impossible to resist. But someone has to be courageous enough to stand up and say that the deliberate repression of female identity is inhuman and barbaric.

Girls are not merely non-boys. Nor are they pretend-boys. They're fine just as they are - girls.

Pic: Mehrnoush the girl has become Mehran the boy

Prim and proper

Is it really true that the young are embarr-assed by oldies who are physically affectionate to each other? Do they really think we're "too old" for that sort of thing and should be chastely conversing, keeping our hands and mouths to ourselves?

I find it hard to believe that young people, with their generally open-minded and hedonistic approach to life, are truly that intolerant of oldies who still enjoy a bit of cuddling and canoodling as much as anyone else.

I think it's more likely that oldies have fallen for this daft idea of a "dignified" old age, and decided that certain behaviour is now embarrassing and inappropriate. So they restrain their natural impulses and stick to what they think is "proper". All that's going to do is stop them having any fun.

After all, the young don't see any virtue in a "dignified" youth. They couldn't care less if what they're doing is seen as embarrassing or inappropriate. They dress in crazy clothes, get paralytically drunk, crash cars, eat unhealthy food. They kiss and fondle each other passionately in public, oblivious to other people's reactions.

So why shouldn't oldies be equally uninhibited? Why not grow old disgracefully? Or at least naturally and not trailing a long list of artificial taboos.

Canoodling isn't the only thing oldies are supposed to abandon. There's also dancing, singing, shrieking at the top of roller coasters, laughing hysterically, eating too messily, and bellowing across crowded rooms. Anything in fact that smacks of wanton enjoyment rather than the sedate and decorous self-control that's mysteriously connected with advancing years. Bollocks to that.

The popular stereotype is something like Saffy in Absolutely Fabulous*, staring aghast at the outrageous clothes her mother is about to go out in, and commenting incredulously "You're not going out like that?" Which prompts a slurred and irreverent reply from Eddie, wondering if she has anything even more outrageous to put on instead.

But I can't believe many of the young are that censorious. And even if they are, they're only jealous. We sexagenarians may be crumbling a bit but we can still rock 'n' roll with the best of them.

* TV series featuring a stern, moralistic teenager and her wild, uncontrollable mother.

Questions questions

The splendid Speccy has challenged me to answer eleven questions. I'm glad to see there's nothing too revealing or controversial, nothing to make a maiden blush or a vicar weep. So here goes:

1. What was the last concert you went to?
K T Tunstall at the Ulster Hall, Belfast. Totally brilliant.

2. When did you last drink champagne?
At the Chandon winery near Melbourne in January.

3. Have you been dancing recently?
Only dancing with rage. Or dancing with joy.

4. What's the first track on the closest CD?
St James Infirmary by Hugh Laurie and Record Collector by Lissie Maurus. I adore both singers.

5. If you could compete in the Olympics, in what event?
Gymnastics. I'd love to be capable of such grace and agility.

6. What is your favourite children's book?
Alice in Wonderland. She has such extraordinary adventures. And I've always been a sucker for surrealism.

7. How did you choose your blog title?
An angel of the Lord came unto me saying "Howdi, Nickhereandnow, I command you to start blogging."

8. How long do you spend on blogging each week?
A few hours. Or a few days if you include answering the huge piles of fan mail.

9. What was your biggest achievement?
Staying alive. I was very accident-prone as a child.

10. Who are you inspired by?
Anyone who is generous, compassionate, smart, strong-minded, courageous and witty.

11. Who stole the cookies from the cookie jar?
Not me, it was the cookie fairy. I saw her. I did, I did. Cross my heart and hope to die.

I won't tag anyone else, they might not like it. But if anyone wants to join in, here are some new questions:

What are you hopeless at/brilliant at?
What do you wish you'd never worn/said?
What was the last time you cried/jumped for joy?
What personal quality do you cringe at/relish?
What's your favourite garment/time of the day?
What daily chore drives you nuts?

Wicked rumours

Malicious rumours are being spread that my blog posts are created in Chinese sweatshops by exhausted children working 23-hour days and paid the equivalent of 5p a week.

This is simply untrue, as a quick phone call to our head office would easily confirm.

Our 147-strong staff work in luxurious conditions
in our purpose-built production centre in Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire, and all receive exceptionally generous salaries compared to other less reputable blogging enterprises. World-class chefs, beauticians and hairdressers are on hand day and night to tend to their every whim, and chauffeur-driven limousines make light work of any travel needs.

But don't take my word for it. Here's what 25-year-old concept-facilitator Mandy Mouthwash has to say: "I just love working at nickhereandnow so much. It has totally changed my life. For the first time my creative talents are being recognised and appreciated. I feel I'm making a real contribution to the well-being of society. Not only that, but the guys here are drop-dead gorgeous."

The scurrilous rumours of Chinese child-labour are based on an alleged interview with 7-year-old Wah Shing in one of the tabloid newspapers.

He claims to have been trapped into blog-slavery several years ago and despite repeated attempts to escape his inhuman conditions is still forced to write continuously with no meal or toilet breaks and even when his fingers and eyeballs are bleeding from overuse. Frequently collapsing from malnutrition and exhaustion, he is mercilessly revived with buckets of ice-cold water until he resumes work.

Unstinting inquiries by my staff have failed to locate the elusive Wah Shing, who is clearly a monstrous journalistic invention with as much substance as Tinkerbelle.

I have put the whole distasteful business in the capable hands of my lawyers, Sue Grabbit and Runne.

Pic: The nickhereandnow head office at Chipping Norton

Only teasing

When does teasing become bullying? And are some people more upset by it than others?

I haven't been teased much in my life, and when I have it's been more affectionate than malicious. At school I was called "beanpole" because I was so thin, but I just found it amusing. My granny used to call me "Little Knickers" but that was simply playful as well.

One workmate used to tease me about the number of bananas I ate (actually a grand total of two a day), but then he used to tease everyone mercilessly so I never took it personally, except to get very irritated by the repetitiveness.

One boss I had used to refer to every male employee as "Fred", regardless of their real name. That was definitely insulting, as he knew very well, but he wouldn't stop doing it.

If teasing is based on affection, that's fine, it doesn't bother me. But if it's based on ill-will and the wish to provoke and undermine, then it becomes something nasty that needs to be stopped before a person's self-confidence crumbles.

And it's true that some people are more sensitive to teasing than others. Someone with a thick skin and an enormous ego hardly notices they're being teased, it's simply water off a duck's back. They may even welcome it as a way of getting attention.

But someone who already has low self-esteem can quickly be unnerved by persistent teasing that only adds to the negative self-image they're carrying around.

Men still think it's fine to tease women about their figures, or their sexiness, or their clothes (and most women are insecure about all three), but complaints by women generally fall on deaf ears. If women teased men in the same relentless fashion, they would get it in the neck.

Teasing as a sign of fondness is harmless fun. Teasing as a sign of malice can quickly turn into emotional torture.

Pic: Rean Carter of Sunderland, who was being teased at school for his "girlie" hair. He has now had it cut short.

Sigh of relief

Teachers who organise school trips are getting more and more nervous that they'll be held responsible for every little cock-up that takes place, however innocent or unpredictable. So much so that some teachers are refusing to organise such trips altogether - to the great disappointment of the kids who lose out.

But teachers who went on a school trip to Belize where two pupils were raped have been held not responsible, and the pupils themselves have been told their behaviour was partly to blame.

That doesn't excuse the rapes of course, but it does help teachers who're stressed out with anticipating every possible accident and mishap and waiting for an accusing finger to be pointed at them.

The High Court found that the pupils had broken two basic rules of the trip by letting a man into their cabin and drinking alcohol. And they had not asked him to leave.

The court also found that the teachers had no reason to suspect the rapist, the resort owner's son, who had no criminal record and as far as they knew had not behaved improperly to anyone.

The teachers must have been greatly relieved, especially as the case has taken seven years to reach court - presumably seven years of nailbiting anxiety and self-accusation. Perhaps the teachers deserve to get damages for all the anguish they've been through.

The fact is that with the best will in the world, and with all possible precautions being taken, disasters can still occur. You just have to accept that they couldn't be prevented and deal with them as best you can. Dragging people through the courts seldom helps.

Brushed aside

It's easy to overlook human frailty. If we're able-bodied, healthy and mentally alert, it's easy to be impatient and insensitive towards those who aren't.

We don't always understand the limitations and failings that other people are struggling with, and sometimes it's all too tempting to believe they're exaggerating their problems and don't really need as much help as they make out.

How often I see people intent only on their own personal pleasures or urgent tasks rushing through the streets in a self-absorbed bubble, with no time or tolerance for those who are physically impaired, slow-witted, confused or otherwise not as capable as those around them.

How often I see reports of lonely elderly people forgotten about by their neighbours, disabled people forced onto the sidelines, mentally ill people treated as work-shy frauds, and wonder when we're going to have a bit more compassion and consideration.

I think the worst offenders aren't ordinary individuals, who can be astonishingly generous and sympathetic when prompted, but politicians to whom the weak and vulnerable are frequently nothing more than a tiresome embarrassment to be hidden away and ignored. Or told they're leeching off the state and should get off their arses.

A couple of years ago there was an elderly man living in the house next door. I didn't think about him much, I assumed he was happy enough doing his own thing, whatever that was. Then I heard he had died of chronic liver disease as a result of heavy drinking.

I thought that maybe if I'd been a bit nosier, a bit friendlier, he would still be alive. I was maybe just as oblivious as so many other people. The truth is, he was out of sight and out of mind.

A coating of sugar

It's always a let-down when a well-written and believable novel finishes with a totally contrived "happy ending". Probably because that's what the publisher wanted.

A book full of adultery, accidents, abortions and animosities magically terminates with all the festering problems conveniently resolved and everyone sailing on serenely. Pull the other one, it's got bells on.

The writer Winifred Holtby once said her idea of a happy ending wasn't one where everything comes right but one where the hero or heroine remains undaunted by things going wrong. I couldn't agree more.

The logic of the "happy ending" is fundamentally flawed. If the point is to encourage your readers and fill them with optimism, well, it may do that for five minutes, but then anyone with any intelligence will realise the contrivance and reflect that of course real-life is different.

If you want to encourage your readers, far better to depict someone who's been thrown the worst life can offer and has found the inner resources to deal with it and emerge stronger and more capable. Isn't that more inspiring than a bogus "all's well that ends well"?

A couple of months ago I read a typical "happy ending" novel. A women who's desperate for a child but can't get pregnant with her husband goes to bed with another man (married) and has his child. I assumed that once the truth got out (as it did) all hell would break loose and both marriages would be on the rocks.

But no. Very fortuitously the woman's husband doesn't mind a bit. And the other man happens to get killed. Everything wrapped up very neatly - except for the grieving widow, that is.

I'm sorry but a tricksy finale like that simply spoils the whole book for me. Life just isn't like that. If only they'd asked Winifred Holtby for the ending.

Hard feelings

I do envy those people whose emotions are easily accessible, who know instantly if they're angry or jealous or sad or whatever.

I'm not like that at all. Sometimes my feelings are clear but at other times I have to dig them out from under a thick layer of repression, confusion and politeness.

I have to ask myself, what's going on here? What am I feeling, if anything? Am I really unruffled and unaffected, or am I quietly seething with rage or burning with resentment? What am I hiding in a dark corner somewhere?

Some people may wish they were less visibly emotional, that they weren't a constant maelstrom of violent ups and downs, but personally I'd like to bring a bit more emotion to the surface. I'd like to be a bit less of an unreadable sphinx.

Where this cool exterior somes from I don't know. Maybe it's just my personality. Maybe it's masculine conditioning. Maybe I'm afraid of exposing too much and getting hurt. Whatever it is, it's frustrating. Too often, I'm just unsure what's going on inside me.

I may imagine that by being less emotional, I'm thinking things through more clearly. But that has to be an illusion. I'm simply not aware of how my buried emotions are still affecting my thinking anyway. They'll make their presence felt somehow, whether I like it or not.

If I can just push away all the psychological sludge that's submerging my feelings, they might flow a bit more easily. I might even learn to wear my heart on my sleeve instead of behind my back.

Debt crisis

Are you as confused as I am about the Greek debt crisis? Are you struggling to make sense of it? Can you tell your junk bonds from your derivative instruments? Would you recognise a promissory note if you saw one?

No, I thought you wouldn't. Well, you can relax now, you're in good company. Nobody knows what the fuck's going on except a few hotshot economists (round about twelve) who have a vague idea of what's what. The rest of us are about as clued-up as a monkey with a hangover.

Still, having racked my brain for a while, I think the gist of what's happening is this:

1) The Greeks have been very naughty boys and girls
2) They've been given a jolly good ticking-off
3) They've been told to behave themselves or else
4) We'll be keeping a very close eye on them
5) So they'd better not try anything funny
6) We've confiscated all their pocket money
7) They can't have any sweeties for a very long time
8) They've been very naughty boys and girls
9) Just what do they think they're playing at?
10) They should be ashamed of themselves

There you are, not so hard is it? If you just collect up all those tricky words like guaranteed collateral and leveraged buyouts and flush them down the toilet, you'll feel ever so much better. If you realise there aren't really any debts anywhere, just rows of figures and bits of paper, you'll feel on top of the world.

Now help yourself to some olives, a few grapes and a jug or two of ouzo and, believe me, the Greek debt crisis will soon be of no importance whatever. Abracadabra!

Covering up

It's disapp-ointing to read that almost half of women questioned about make-up say they feel negative about themselves if they don't wear it. And the dislike of their natural faces can start in their early teens or even sooner.

The 44 per cent who don't like going without make-up say that without it they either feel unattractive, or naked, or self-conscious. Where does this aversion to their given appearance come from?

As a bloke who's never used make-up and just accepts my face as it is, ugly or otherwise, I simply don't understand why women are so repelled by what they see in front of them in the morning that they have to conceal it and prettify it as fast as possible.

I remember that in the sixties and seventies many women decided to abandon or severely reduce their make-up as a protest against having to meet men's expectations of what women should look like. Gradually however they lost their nerve and went back to slapping on make-up as lavishly as before.

Presumably the more you wear make-up, the more you believe it's necessary and the more unnatural it feels not to be wearing any. Your real face becomes an embarrassing secret you have to hide from the world.

Older women are often trying to cover up wrinkles, a rather pointless exercise since men will assume straightaway that's the purpose of their make-up and wonder just how decrepit they are underneath.

Of course if a woman uses make-up, her boyfriends won't know what she really looks like until the moment they discover her without it. She must get nervous about their reaction. Will they be dismayed or will they prefer the natural look? Mind you, there may still be a few males out there so unobservant they fail to notice the difference....

And why is it only women who feel they can't be seen without a generous layer of make-up? Jeez, there are plenty of men out there badly in need of some cosmetic enhancement. Funny though, I can't see the average bloke getting up and putting on his face any time soon.
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Unfortunately I've had to reintroduce the dreaded wordcheck as I'm getting loads of email spam. Rats!

Lust-free

It seems that asexuals, or people with no interest in sex, have a lot of difficulty getting others to accept their disinterest.

In a world preoccupied with sex and finding sexual partners, where the media is awash with scantily clad women and advice on seduction techiques, those who're naturally indifferent to sex are still regarded as oddities - or suffering some sort of psychological problem.

An estimated one per cent of the population are thought to be asexual, and one asexuality website has over 50,000 members. There are plenty of couples who're perfectly happy without any love-making.

Yet whenever they "come out" to other people, sooner or later it'll be suggested that they're not really asexual, that actually there's something else going on.

They haven't found the right person, they're sexually repressed, they've been abused, they're secretly gay, it's a temporary phase, they're late developers. And so on and so on.

But why shouldn't people simply be uninterested in sex? Is that really so strange? It's just one sort of pleasure among a thousand others, and not everyone finds it essential. Life won't come to a grinding halt if a few people don't share the universal obsession.

And obsession it certainly is. Asexuals say they find it extremely tedious listening to workplace conversations that so often revolve around sex and the sexual attractiveness of workmates. They're mystified by the time and effort devoted to the topic.

But in our sex-sodden world, someone who never feels the tug of lust or the frisson of a naked body can be hard to comprehend. What, lacy underwear or rippling biceps do nothing for you? Nothing at all? What's WRONG with you?

Wardrobe malfunction

Oh dear, student leaders at Exeter University have really got their nappies in a knot. They're warning students that cross-dressing is offensive to transsexuals.

Come again? I'm loath to use that much mis-applied expression "political correctness gone mad", but that's what it is.

The Students Guild maintains that cross-dressing creates a parody of women and is the equivalent of "blacking-up". It is mocking transsexuals who are still in-between genders.

They really haven't thought it through, as more enlightened students have since pointed out.

Cross-dressing is not only harmless fun, but it breaks down gender roles and the absurd rules about "gender-appropriate" clothing.

Yes, there are some drag queens who ridicule women, but the vast majority are simply liberating themselves from the tyranny of shirts, ties and suits. In fact many dress as women specifically to celebrate female beauty and adornment.*

Okay, some drag queens are so inept they end up as hopelessly unconvincing women, but that doesn't amount to "parody", only an aesthetic blind-spot.

The supreme irony of all this is that transsexuals themselves are cross-dressing. So by what strange logic can it also be offensive?

The Clare Project, a transgender support group, has already criticised the student leaders for trying to be politically correct and getting it wrong. Well said. Men in skirts are simply that - men in skirts.

*I'm confining myself to men here, as women are effectively "cross-dressing" on a daily basis anyway.

By an odd coincidence, John has posted on the very same subject, in his own inimitable style.

Party fever

Well, the fifth blogiversary party is well under way at Nick Towers, and hundreds of guests are dancing, drinking and coking the night away in a frenzy of uninhibited enjoyment seldom seen in the sedate residential district of Belmont. Already I'm having to placate angry neighbours who're threatening to call the police or unleash their slavering dogs.

In fact I'm worried the party is getting a little out of hand. I can hear the sound of breaking glass and splintering wood from one direction, and piercing screams and ripping fabric from the other. I do hope the priceless Victorian chaise-longue and the exquisite Ming vases are still in one piece.

Various celebs have somehow heard about the glittering soirée and dropped in uninvited, but I haven't the heart to dispatch them to some far inferior gathering in the less salubrious cul de sacs of east Belfast. I won't bore you with a tedious round of name-dropping, but Katy Tunstall, Annie Lennox and Natasha Bedingfield are shrieking with laughter just a few yards away.

I dare not peek into the bedrooms to find out what unlikely couplings are taking place or whether the beds are wrecked beyond repair. I must say all the generous displays of cleavage and acres of uncovered flesh are creating an atmosphere so sexually-charged I think I shall pass out with over-excitement.

Some sort of gambling frenzy is occurring in the Janis Joplin Suite, and astounding quantities of banknotes are changing hands at dizzying speed. Suitcases full of cash are being brought in every few minutes by the chauffeurs. I gather a very famous toothpaste heiress has just kissed goodbye to a few million.

Several extremely sozzled novelists are exchanging scurrilous gossip about a certain veteran actor. They seem unaware that the actor's less famous brother is standing behind them, listening to every word. I have a feeling an ambulance might shortly be required. If not for them, for a number of guests who've visibly gone native.

Everyone agrees it's already the party to end all parties. Anybody who's missed it will be out of their mind with envy. Oh, hang on, there seem to be a couple of police officers at the door. Or are they guests in fancy dress? Or am I too stoned to tell the difference?

Single vision

I've been living with Jenny for so long I sometimes wonder how I would behave if I were living on my own again. Would I still be so well-organised and domesticated, or would I be a total slut, letting everything slide into chaos and squalor?

After all this time as a couple, I really have no idea how little or how much Jenny influences me. Is she constantly changing my attitudes or do I carry on moreorless as I would have done anyway?

Before I met Jenny, I lived in a tiny bedsit that required the absolute minimum of maintenance, so it's hard to know how I would shape up if I had a whole house to look after.

Would I be so overwhelmed that I just moved into one room and ignored all the rest? Or I would I become ultra-houseproud and be hoovering from top to bottom at 6 am?

And would I eat properly? When Jenny worked in Glasgow for a year, we assumed she would be knocking up cordon bleu treats while I got by on snacks and packets of crisps. Oddly enough, it was the other way round and I was the one cooking decent meals.

And would I be happily socialising, looking up all my old friends and busily making new ones, or would I turn into a disgruntled hermit, refusing to answer the door and cursing humanity?

In my pre-Jenny days I was sociable enough, so I suspect the extrovert would win out over the recluse.

The fact is that if you live with someone, you do subtly modify each other's behaviour without always being aware of it. You're unconsciously motivated by the desire to look good, or be well thought-of, or make a good impression, and you may be faking it a bit. So how can I be sure what I'm really like?

Naturally I hope I never have occasion to find out. As Jenny is ten years younger than me, she's likely to outlast me. But you never can tell.
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I've turned off the wordcheck. It's driving me nuts, especially the word in black and white that's virtually impossible to read. Hopefully I won't get a deluge of spam.

Militant atheists

Gosh, all these prominent public figures lining up to defend Christianity against "militant atheists" and "militant secularists" who according to them are putting the very existence of Christianity in doubt.

They're kidding, right? They don't really mean that Vatican City, thousands of churches, thousands of faith schools and millions of Holy Bibles are going to vanish overnight in a puff of smoke? And that the evil atheists can achieve this simply by saying "I don't believe in God"?

Well, not exactly that. An atheist got a court ruling that prayers before a council meeting were illegal. That's all it took to get one of the most powerful religions on earth quaking in its boots and predicting Doomsday.

Not only that, but uncovering a huge unsuspected conspiracy of militant atheists and non-believers, rattling their sceptical sabres and loading their cynical shotguns.

Well, holy haddock, I've never been remotely militant about my atheism. I've just quietly pooh-poohed the idea of a supreme being for most of my 65 years, ever since I realised what a chaotic mess the world was in.

But now suddenly I feel inadequate. I'm letting the side down, not pulling my weight. All those militant atheists out there, working their arses off, and all I'm doing is not believing in God. Pathetic, isn't it? Utterly shameful.

I should be doing my fair share. Burning prayer books. Assaulting vicars. Blowing up churches. There's so much to organise. It's a daunting task, but with so much militancy out there, I'm sure we can manage it. Onward non-Christian soldiers!

Thirty love

It's funny how when you start a relationship with someone, you've no idea how long it's going to last. It could be 30 days or 30 years. Or 30 minutes. Which is one reason why making out with someone new is so exciting.

When I first met Jenny at a central London bookshop and nervously fixed a date, I hadn't a clue what would happen.

We might have had a violent argument 10 minutes later and both walked off in a huff. We might have tried our best to get on with each other and decided it was a case of Mr Chalk and Ms Cheese. One of us might have had some personal passion the other totally detested.

If anyone had predicted we'll still be seriously in love three decades later, I'd have scoffed and told them to catch themselves on*. I'd have said, how likely is that when relationships come and go like taxis. Surely sooner or later we'll get bored with each other, get itchy feet, and start looking for an upgrade.

But the months and years rolled on and in some mysterious way we found ourselves still together, still enamoured, despite all the predictable squabbles, misunderstandings, grievances and stand-offs. They were never severe enough to break the deep bond that had somehow established itself.

That we've reached the present day in such enduring harmony never ceases to amaze me. It's as if we've been on a long journey through unfamilar territory with a thousand opportunities to get lost, get eaten by wolves, fall into a ravine, or be crushed by a landslide, and by some miracle we've avoided all the dangers and reached our destination.

I can only give thanks to whatever guardian angel is looking after us and keeping this old banger on the road.

* come down to earth. A common Northern Irish expression.

Pic: Not us, just another happy couple.

We need to talk

I talk to myself. I always have done. It's a trait I inherit from my father. It's one of those habits people don't like to confess to, but I'm sure it's very common.

I sometimes talk to myself outside the house, and I notice people giving me funny looks, wondering if I'm mad or mentally lacking. I silence myself instantly and feign innocence, as if it must have been someone else they heard.

I often talk to myself at home. I find it helps me to think. It's like talking to another person about something. The two-way conversation helps me to elucidate things and develop new ideas.

I wouldn't go quite as far as Woody Allen, who once said "I always talk to myself because I'm the most intelligent person I know". But certainly it helps to know that whatever the subject, I have a listener who understands what I'm talking about - because after all he raised the subject in the first place.

I've never tried to cure the habit. It's not doing any harm, except to cause a few puzzled glances. I have no idea what causes it, whether it's genetic or unconsciously copied from my father.

I don't even know how prevalent it is, since as I say, people don't like to admit to it. I don't know if it affects five per cent of the population or 55 per cent.

I remember once walking in Covent Garden, in London, and coming across Lord Longford, the late campaigner for prison reform and other causes. He was busily talking to himself, completely oblivious to the crowds of people all around him. And no, he wasn't on the phone. In those days mobiles hadn't been invented.

So come on, own up, how many of you talk to your own alter ego? If you all deny it, I shan't believe you. And neither will Nick.

Exposure

I'm always astonished at those people who have no inhibitions whatever about exposing every aspect of their lives, no matter how personal or controversial, to the entire population.

They appear happily on TV shows telling their amazed audiences how often they've shoplifted or driven while drunk or taken sickies* or had sex with their bosses. Far from being embarrassed, they seem to be proud of their extravagant behaviour, as if they're living life to the full while the rest of us are timid introverts not daring to do anything out of the ordinary.

I'm not complaining. They're not doing any harm to anyone (unless their fearless honesty includes a bit of fearless putting-the-boot-in**). And it's up to them how they want to live their lives and how private or all-revealing they want to be. What's it to do with me?

In fact it can be very enjoyable, in a morbid-curiosity kind of way, listening to someone confessing to the sort of outrageous behaviour I would never indulge in unless I was seriously under the influence.

But I'm never sure if their full-on disclosures imply simply a natural personality unspoilt by the normal adult scruples, or if they're ego-trippers seeking as much attention as possible and terrified of being ignored. And does it matter anyway?

Certainly many of us have learnt to be cautious about what we say or don't say for fear of people's frosty or censorious reactions. We err on the side of discreet silence rather than blurting something out that we might regret for weeks afterwards.

Even with close friends we've known for decades, we might hesitate to reveal something too intimate or unusual, something that despite their affection and loyalty they might still find too hot to handle.

I well remember an occasion many decades ago when I got so drunk I actually lost consciousness for an hour or so. My first feeling when I came to was terror that I might have said or done something utterly scandalous without realising. Did I try to seduce someone? Did I tip wine over the host? Thankfully I was assured that I'd done nothing shameful.

The idea of flamboyantly emptying myself out to the world at large fills me with horror. I'd rather eat my own left leg.

* pretending to be too sick to work
** having it in for someone

Pinkie in demand

Enough of the nasty side of humanity. Time once again for something soft, pink and fluffy.

The story so far: Mr Pinkie had some self-esteem issues as all his friends were yellow or brown and he felt a bit out of place. But his sessions with therapist Dr Melissa Flinch were helping a lot and he thought he would soon be proud to be pink.

He enjoys being soft and fluffy as this means he has a heart of gold and all the girls adore him. They tell him their deepest secrets and he gives them wonderful advice without ever betraying their confidence.

Little bears everywhere long to be as sweet as Mr Pinkie.

So where is Mr Pinkie now?

He's completed his training as a hairdresser and opened his own salon, Cuts by Pinkie, which is already THE place for smart gals and guys to get the perfect cut for that oh-so-important social occasion.

Of course they don't just get their hair attended to. As always, Mr Pinkie dispenses invaluable tips on how to deal with that distressing personal dilemma or ditch that unwanted suitor.

A big hug from the soft and fluffy Mr Pinkie is wonderfully reassuring and comforting, and so much huggier than the bony contours of the conventional hair stylist.

No wonder Mr Pinkie's appointment book is choc-o-bloc for the next 12 months and potential clients will do anything, ANYTHING, to secure a booking. Some of their suggestions would bring a rosy blush to the most sanguine countenance.

In short, Mr Pinkie is in his prime and floating on air. The world is his oyster. The future is his for the taking.

And before you ask, I have no influence whatever with Mr P. So any discreet (or indiscreet) approaches to me will be firmly rebuffed. Naughty naughty!!