Brighton

So all is revealed! Jenny and I paid a six-day visit to Brighton, a seaside resort neither of us had been to for decades. Despite the usual pre-holiday worries about unexpected glitches and cock-ups, everything went smoothly and we had a great time. Amazing weather too - dry and sunny throughout except for some torrential downpours last Monday.

The first thing we noticed was the general physical shabbiness. Many buildings were in urgent need of renovation or redecoration, though the residents and other tourists didn't seem bothered. There were also the usual rough sleepers and graffiti.

But people were very friendly if we seemed lost or needed some help - bus drivers especially.

We were there at the start of the annual Brighton Festival, so enjoyed some great events - a concert by the London Symphony Orchestra, a concert by the Herbie Flowers jazz band, and a talk by Caroline Lucas, the solitary Green MP. We also checked out the Royal Pavilion (unbelievably lavish), Brighton Museum and Art Gallery, Hove Museum and the Castle and Museum at Lewes, a few miles north of Brighton.

Everybody seemed to be having a splendid time, with hardly a miserable face to be seen. Brighton is known for its gay and "alternative" vibe and we saw plenty of piercings and tattoos and even two men wearing skirts.

The enormous breakfasts at our guest house kept us fuelled for most of the day. In the evening, as well as our usual visits to Pizza Express, we tried two nearby restaurants, one Indian and the other Italian.

So how would I sum up Brighton? Let's say scruffy, funky, exuberant and easy-going.

Far too thin

I've always been thin, especially when I was young and verging on the anorexic, so the women I know are always trying to fatten me up and make me 'healthy'.

Giant chocolate cookies, jam-smothered scones, chunky sandwiches and bowls of chips are pushed in my direction to stop me wasting away any further.

Actually my weight is perfect for my height, but the widespread prevalence of beer bellies and hefty hips makes me look like the oddity. I was actually asked the other day if I had ever been anorexic, so commonplace is it these days.

Even Jenny, who's well used to my body by now, still thinks I'm too skinny and ought to fill out a bit. But she just wants a comfier backrest, if you ask me.

Those who struggle constantly with their weight insist I must be naturally thin and able to stuff myself silly with calorie-rich titbits without gaining an ounce. Well, that was true once but nowadays I have to watch the pounds too.

It's ironic that if I were female I could savour my lucky conformity to the willowy stereotype of Ms Drop Dead Gorgeous. But physical size is fairly low-down on the Ideal Man checklist - what matters more is the size of his bank account and the size of his home. And possibly the size of something more personal.

I'm constantly amazed by the well-upholstered, ample-bellied males that women are happy to be seen with. The only arena in which male thinness is a definite plus seems to be the gay world - I certainly stirred a bit of interest there when I was younger (a lot younger).

For me though, the odd remark about my thinness is just amusing. But it's the thin celebs I feel sorry for. If there's no bulging flesh to be seen, anorexia is the word on everyone's lips - and a hundred denials mean nothing.

(see also Size Zero)