Overload

Most people I know seem to be permanently overloaded - with work, with children, with domestic chores, with sick relatives. They barely have time to sneeze, let alone relax properly or take up a serious leisure interest.

They're constantly rushing from one thing to the next, juggling a dozen different commitments and emergencies, frantically emailing and phoning and texting, forever postponing things they would like to do but just don't have the time until next week - or next month or next year.

I don't remember it being this bad when I was young. I recall laid-back workplaces where you had plenty of time to chat, plenty of help with demanding jobs, and long boozy lunchhours.

There were always far more employees than work to be done, and less inclination to work yourself into the ground for a slightly higher salary. People felt comfortably off if they had the basics - a house, a spouse, a hobby and some friends - and weren't seeking the relentless lifestyle upgrading that's rife nowadays.

Of course this might be just the 'Good Old Days' syndrome and I'm overlooking the subtle pressures people were still under even if they seemed relaxed. But I think the pace and frantic-ness of life have definitely increased dramatically.

Today even phone conversations are often brusque to the point of rudeness as something is dealt with in the minimum time and the phone is slammed down. Face to face, people are constantly preoccupied with other pressing tasks, checking their mobiles and riffling through notebooks and diaries. Nobody seems 100 per cent focused on anything, their minds fluttering about like restless birds.

Can we all please slow down a bit, shed a few supposedly vital duties, and become a bit more human?

Going to extremes

After writing about overworked women, I realised how easy it is to overdo things, for quite natural desires to turn into unhealthy obsessions. Like dieting that slides into anorexia and bulimia.

We've all been there, I'm sure. I guess most people see me as a fairly level-headed person who doesn't do extremes, but there are one or two skeletons in the closet.

When I was in my twenties, influenced by stories of Buddhist monks in mountain caves, I decided minimalism was the way to go and tried to simplify my life to the bare essentials. I rented a tiny bedsit, gave away my car, eschewed all luxuries and never took a holiday.

Outside of work, I lived like a hermit, talking to no one, ignoring the rest of the world, contemplating the meaning of the universe. This went on for some months until I fell for a stunningly beautiful woman who visited my spartan lair and threw up her hands in horror at my hairshirt lifestyle.

She took me back to her plushy, sumptuous flat and all my minimalist principles bit the dust. I realised a fanatical puritanism had taken over from pleasure and common sense.

It's easily done. And it's not just the headline addictions like eating disorders you have to guard against. There are plenty of damaging routines you can slip into without realising.

Things like excessive house-cleaning regimes, extreme dedication to work, a weakness for destructive relationships or a self-effacing devotion to an impossible parent.

I've known women who couldn't rest until dust was wiped off a table or a stain removed from the carpet, whose houses had to be pristine and spotless at all times. I've known men who would stay in the office till midnight finishing that vital presentation that would impress the boss and win promotion.

We could all name friends who've been in soul-destroying relationships with hopelessly unsuitable people, constantly denigrated and belittled till they're in pieces. And we've all seen tyrannical elderly parents making relentless demands on tearful offspring who can't bear to walk away.

It's easy to drift into unwitting self-sacrifice for the best of motives. Sometimes it's not other people who enslave us. We naively make our own treadmills.

PS: Grandad has nominated me for the colossally prestigious Break Out Blogger Award. What a sweetie!

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I'm deeply shocked by the pictures of utter filth and squalor at the Kent hospitals where 90 patients died from the superbug Clostridium Difficile. There was such a shortage of nurses patients were told they couldn't be helped to the toilet, they had to relieve themselves in their beds. The beds were so close together the bug spread like wildfire, and there were body fluids and rubbish everywhere. And this is despite billions of pounds being poured into the NHS. What the hell was done with the money?

A woman's lot

A rather brave journalist called Jemima Lewis* has dared to say that if most women feel stressed and miserable, it's entirely their fault and nothing to do with men.

Instead of giving themselves impossible workloads and trying to do everything perfectly, they should follow men's example and lower their standards, do less and relax more.

She believes the reason women push themselves so hard is not to impress men but to compete with other women and satisfy their own vanity.

Men don't waste time wondering if the wallpaper is passé, if their thighs are too big or if their Christmas presents are thoughtful and personal enough. "They have more pressing matters to attend to, such as having a good time".

Well, I have to admit, at the risk of giving Medbh apoplexy, that I tend to agree with her.

I've known a lot of restless women who thought nothing in their life was quite good enough and were in a constant frenzy of upgrading and modernising. Home, job, friends, men, personal appearance - everything was ruthlessly evaluated and found wanting.

They always claimed that all they wanted to do was sprawl on the settee with a glass of champagne and a good book, but in practice they couldn't sit down for two minutes without wondering if the carpet needed hoovering or the spice jars needed refilling.

None of these details bothered me, but they were preoccupied with them. Of course like everyone else, I want to make my life more comfortable and more satisfying, but I'm not going to bust a gut in the process. I'll take it at a leisurely pace, thanks, and I'll take time to admire the scenery on the way. Including the slightly dated wallpaper.

* writing in the London Independent, 29.09.07