Home truths

Why is moving house such a messy and frustrating business? We were all set to move to what looked like a lovely house a few streets away, until the surveyor pointed out rather too many faults and defects for our liking.

The owners offered to put right most of the defects at their own expense, but we still weren't happy about the general condition of the house and spent several weeks asking them awkward questions and wondering whether to pull out or not.

Today we went back to the house and took a really searching look at it, only to find even more flaws that the surveyor hadn't noticed. So we reluctantly gave up on buying it and we're house-hunting once again.

Moving is always a fraught business one way or another. When we moved to Belfast from London, the woman buying our flat (who was from Belfast, funnily enough) kept procrastinating for so long we wondered if she was really serious about buying. We practically had to force her to go ahead at gunpoint.

When we moved into that flat, having spent virtually our last penny on it, we immediately discovered that our neighbours downstairs were totally anti-social and held all-night parties several times a week. It took us nine months to get them out, Environmental Health having taken them to court.

The very first flat we bought in London turned out to be badly insulated and freezing cold because the heating system was inadequate. In the depths of winter we would get ice and rivers of condensation on the windows. We were mighty relieved to get into somewhere warmer.

So my advice is - don't move at all unless there's some really big benefit at the end of all that upheaval. The problems are enough to give you a few grey hairs and sleepless nights. If you like where you're living - just stay put and enjoy.

PS: We've had a furious email from one of the house's owners, berating us for pulling out. I hope I don't bump into him on the street, he might give me a kicking....

Male loyalty

I'm sometimes asked why I'm not more loyal to men, and why I so often defend the opposite sex when a man is under attack.

Well, I can only ask why I should defend a man simply because he's the same sex as me, even if he's behaving badly. I'll support a man if I think he's right, if I think he's being unfairly pilloried over something, but not otherwise. Why should I condone misconduct?

Nobody would expect me to defend people on the basis that they're also six foot, or in their sixties, or thin, or short-sighted, so why is being male any different? Why should we have anything in common apart from our reproductive organs?

So when I see a man being blatantly insulting to a woman, or getting some perk a woman isn't getting, I'm baffled when people expect me to root for the man and give the woman the brush-off. We blokes should stick together, I'm told. Mustn't let the side down. Says who?

It's exactly this kind of blind loyalty that perpetuates male mistreatment of women, that permits rape and domestic violence and stunted lives. Instead of speaking out, instead of demanding justice, men stay silent and let it all continue.

After all, women are always saying that there's not much loyalty between women, that unlike men they don't feel obliged to stick up for each other regardless. In fact women can bitch something rotten about other women on the flimsiest of grounds - a short skirt, too much cleavage, a grimy kitchen, a dented car. No feelings are spared. At least men are more forgiving about each other's petty failings.

But if I'm expected to forgive a drunken lout forcing himself on some unsuspecting women who invited him in for coffee, no way. Tarring and feathering would be more like it.

Thanks to Thriftcriminal (wherever he's got to) for the idea.

Cars and bras

Are women really shallower than men? A Welsh academic says yes - because they prefer a handsome man in a £70,000 Bentley to the same man in a clapped-out Ford Fiesta.

Dr Michael Dunn of the University of Wales Institute in Cardiff has done a survey of male and female reactions to the opposite sex and cars.

He found women generally opted for the man in the expensive car, whereas men were unimpressed by a flashy car and were only interested in the woman's looks.

According to Dr Dunn, this showed women were shallower than men because their heads were turned by a bit of high-powered machinery, while the men put the person first.

Well, excuse me, Dr Dunn, but I would turn that shallow argument inside out and say that makes men the superficial ones because they value mere physical appearance over what's inside the package. All they really care about is glossy hair and big tits.

Women on the other hand are more sensible because they look at a man's personal capabilities - including the ability to earn money and get on in life. Signs of self-confidence and success are more important than a firm jaw line and melting blue eyes.

Of course, speaking as a man who once owned an ageing Ford Fiesta, we do have a certain appeal to the more discerning female. There's a distinctive quality that money simply can't buy. Nevertheless, it's still true that a man's car might say more about him than the shape of his nose.

Dr Dunn also concludes that a man who owns an expensive car is seen as more likely to rear healthy offspring. Come again? How does that work exactly? Not the hoary old cliché about cars proving virility, surely? Dr Dunn, I have some advice for you. When you're in a hole - stop digging.
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I can't stop listening to: "Extraordinary Machine" by Fiona Apple

Burden of youth

I just don't know how today's youngsters manage to make their way in the world, with one burden after another being thrown at them.

Now British universities want to more than double tuition fees to £6,500 "to protect teaching standards". If they get their way, the average graduate debt could go up from £17,500 to £32,000.

As a result of acquiring skills that will benefit not just themselves but the whole society, they're stuck with a massive debt that could take years to pay off - if they can even find a job with a decent salary.

How lucky I was as an undergraduate to have all my expenses paid for me - not just tuition fees but subsistence costs and even travel costs from London to Buckinghamshire where I was studying. And I had no need to jeopardise my studies by taking a paid job.

Then if these debt-laden twenty somethings want to buy a flat or a house, they have to find further unbelievable sums of money, including the huge deposit that mortgage lenders now require.

If they also want children, more headaches. When I was young and relatives often lived close by, they helped with childcare and domestic chores and made life a lot easier for parents. Now new parents frequently have to fend for themselves and the extra burden takes its toll.

I look at youngsters grappling with all these modern pressures and I wonder how on earth they manage to survive without going under. Certainly bosses have little sympathy, and just expect their employees' difficult private lives not to affect their work.

I can only admire the resilience and determination that keeps young people going and set on getting what they want out of life, despite all the obstacles and boobytraps. I'm just glad I'm 62 and not 22 right now.

Veronica loses it

As usual, my dear friend Veronica, the supermodel, has flown in for my birthday*, bringing exotic gifts and scandalous gossip.

Once again her luggage went missing at Heathrow, and she was hopping mad. "My Manolo Blahniks are gone, and my divine Gucci handbag. Not to mention my Rampant Rabbit. They're probably in the hands of some Mumbai slum-dweller."

"But sweetie, you're always saying you want to help the poor. Now you have. I bet your Rampant Rabbit is giving someone enormous pleasure at this very moment."

"Huh" she snorted. "Why don't they just get off their bums and make another blockbuster like Slumdog Millionaire? They should stop wallowing in poverty."

Sometimes V is so politically incorrect, it's excruciating. I thought of showing her the door, but I was simply dying to hear all that celebrity gossip. She goes to the same gym as Madonna, so she knows absolutely everything.

"Well, happy six-two, you old rascal" she said, handing me a huge beribboned package. Inside was a giant carton of Viagra. She kissed me extravagantly and whispered in my ear "That should keep you going all night, lover boy."

"You're too good to me, sweetie I said. "You know just what an old man needs."

"Of course I do. I'll tell you what I need, a new chauffeur. Sam's taking too many liberties. He can't keep his hands on the steering wheel. And he's gabbing to the tabloids."

"Poor you. Just get rid of him."

"I can't. Then he'll tell the tabloids every f***ing thing. Including the business with Amy and Kylie."

"Oh God, that must never come out. How about a tragic accident?"

"Good idea. Talking of tragic accidents, don't you dare get me pregnant again."

"Shush, I'm meant to have heroically fought off your advances umpteen times."

"Of course you have, my darling."

Photo of Veronica Trinket courtesy of Trinket Offshore Investments

* March 20

Dummy run

Airline pilots train on simulators, one reason why flying is so safe. Surgeons hardly ever train on simulators, one reason why a hospital patient has a 1 in 300 chance of dying or being seriously harmed.

No wonder I'd have to be dragged kicking and screaming into a hospital if the need arose. That statistic is seriously scary. I'd probably have a higher chance of survival in crocodile creek.

Britain's Chief Medical Officer says that if all surgeons trained on simulators, or plastic dummies, there would be a big drop in the number of mistakes and mishaps, and surgical expertise would be greatly improved.

It would avoid cases like Elaine Bromley, who suffered irreversible brain damage during a minor operation because doctors weren't sure how to do a tracheotomy (an incision in the windpipe).

Airline pilots do regular simulator training to help them deal with emergencies. That's why a plane can be successfully landed on New York's Hudson River by an ice-cool pilot who knows exactly what he's doing.

Apparently Israel leads the world in training surgeons and health workers on simulators. They use sophisticated dummies that can bleed, breathe, be anaesthetised, be resuscitated, and show tell-tale medical signs.

If they're so beneficial and they could reduce the shocking toll of medical cock-ups, why on earth aren't Britain's surgeons making more use of them? Perhaps when people go into hospital, they should ask if their surgeon's been trained on a simulator. If not - find one who has.
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The abysmal standard of patient care at Stafford Hospital in England, which has caused up to 1200 unnecessary deaths, is quite shocking. It seems the hospital management was more interested in meeting performance targets than in looking after its patients. Thirsty patients were drinking out of flower vases and others were screaming in agony for lack of pain relief. Unbelievable.

Mother and son

Jenny and I have spent a lot of time discussing the Julie Myerson book and whether she was right to tell the world about her poor relationship with her son.

It makes me think of my own teenage relationship with my father - a very upsetting one - and how I would have felt if he had written a book about me. Without doubt I would have been incandescent.

I was angry enough with him as it was. Like Julie Myerson, he threw me out of the house because he could no longer cope with what he saw as my anti-social and inconsiderate behaviour.

As far as I was concerned, I was just a normal rebellious teenager, forming my own views, following my own interests, and no longer doing and saying what he expected, i.e. being a replica of him.

I would come home in the early hours and disturb him, I would invite round friends he considered disreputable and degenerate, I would engage him in long political arguments he saw as naive and absurd. He finally decided "enough was enough" and told me to leave. I was 22 at the time.

Yes, maybe I WAS inconsiderate and selfish, as he said. But I was furious that he was so unloving, so intolerant, so lacking in understanding, so ruthless, so high-handed. He was treating me not as his son but like some wayward lodger who had breached the tenancy agreement.

Our relationship continued to be stormy and distant for many years, right up to his death in 1988. It was bad enough that he wrote me hateful letters attacking everything about me and dismissing me as immature and irresponsible.

If he had actually put all his one-sided and heartless views into a book for thousands of complete strangers to read, I would have gone through the roof. I would have retaliated in any way I could to get my own back. I imagine Julie Myerson's son Jake must feel something similar.

She defends her book by saying bad relationships should be talked about and not hidden to preserve the image of a "happy family". So, talk about them to friends, relatives, therapists, vicars, whoever. But why is it necessary to vilify your son to the whole world?

Photo: Julie Myerson
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I can't stop listening to: "Keep 'Er Lit" by Cara Robinson

Alphabet soup: A

I'm not going to comment on the dissident republicans and their deranged shootings. Too much has been said already, to the point that tourists are starting to wonder if it's still safe to come here (well, of course it is). So I'm going to boil up some alphabet soup instead:

Abstract art: I love it, the more abstract the better. I adore Miro, Klee, Rothko, Howard Hodgkin, Bridget Riley and Fiona Rae.

Acupuncture: Lots of people swear by it but I've never tried it. Maybe because I've never been in such pain that I'll try anything.

Affair: I've never had one, and that's the honest truth. No woman has ever been tempting enough for me to betray my partner.

Aerobics: I take a brisk walk most days. I mow the lawn and trim the hedges. I climb the Mourne Mountains in the summer. But I would be bored stiff at a gym or exercise class.

Akasha: A supposed etheric field in which past events are imprinted. I don't believe in it. I don't believe I'll be reincarnated as a beetle, either.

Ale: Can't stand the stuff. I like cider though. But a couple of glasses is enough, alcohol and I don't really see eye to eye.

Also-ran: The story of my life. Can't say I've ever been exceptional at anything, except smart-ass remarks on subjects I know nothing about.

Ambulance: Hope I never need one. I dread having to go into hospital, with all the medical cock-ups and infections I'd probably come out in a box.

Anorexia: I'm asked occasionally if I've ever suffered from it. Hey, I'm thin but not that thin. There's plenty of flesh on these here bones.

Apotropaic: Having the power to avert evil or bad luck. Perhaps I am, I haven't had too many disasters in my life, in fact I sometimes feel like an innocent abroad, never truly tested.

Autodidact: That's me all right, on a whole range of subjects. My formal education never got further than undergraduacy.

Coming soon: the letter after A. If you all behave yourselves and pay attention....
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Wednesday lunchtime: Jenny and I have just come back from the pro-peace rally outside Belfast City Hall. There were thousands of people there and it was extremely moving. I felt a lot of sadness around me, I guess there must have been many with painful personal memories of the Troubles, thankful that they were now over.

The cruellest cut

If there's one thing that needs to be exposed on International Women's Day (March 8), it's the appalling global toll of female genital mutilation.

It's thought that 2 million girls a year, mainly in Africa, are forced into this degrading and agonising procedure, and have to live with the distressing results for the rest of their lives.

They may be prone to painful intercourse, menstrual problems, infertility and birth complications. Their essential womanhood has been routinely attacked and damaged in what is seen as a totally acceptable cultural practice.

It's not just women who suffer the consequences, it's men too. FGM doubles the risk of a woman dying in childbirth and makes it three to four times more likely she will have a stillborn child.

There are no valid reasons for it whatever, except cultural tradition. It isn't justified on any medical, hygienic, aesthetic or sexual basis. It's driven by pure sadism, cruelty and men's desire to dominate women and keep them under control.

There are many organisations working to stamp out the practice and persuade families and communities that it's a senseless and barbaric custom, but the huge weight of historic observance is hard to shift. Much more pressure is needed from governments and community leaders.

Here in Ireland, Pamela Izevbekhai is still battling to avoid being deported to Nigeria, where her first daughter Elizabeth died after genital mutilation and her other two daughters would be at similar risk. I sincerely hope she's allowed to stay here.
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April 6 2009: The truth of Pamela's story has been challenged. Elizabeth's death certificate is said to be a forgery and some journalists are questioning whether the child even existed. Her original lawyers have withdrawn from her case and replacement lawyers are being sought.

Unsuitable images

How embarrassing it is when some unorthodox image of somebody pops into my mind and I then have to meet them face to face and try not to be distracted by it.

For men of course the obvious example is some inappropriate sexual scenario that imposes itself. Instead of the prim, po-faced work colleague in her sober suit, I find myself imagining a semi-naked siren luring me into her bed.

I try desperately to keep a straight face as the woman in question asks me about income statistics, performance targets or brand awareness. I attempt to push the scurrilous image to the back of my mind and focus instead on office furniture and stationery supplies. Sometimes it works, sometimes it's like trying not to think of ice cream.

Then there's the 'grisly end' fantasy. I'm picturing that noisy neighbour falling under a ten-tonne truck or perishing in a plane crash, and there he is walking down the street towards me. We exchange polite remarks as ever more gruesome finales flood into my mind.

I'm sure my lurid imaginings must be written all over my face, but he shows no sign of it. Unfortunately there's no sign of any ten-tonne truck either.

Sometimes I can't help envisaging someone in their twilight years, stooping and wrinkled, trudging along hesitantly with their zimmer frame. Why I should suddenly conjure up such an unflattering image of someone still in the full flush of youth, I don't know. Certainly they would be horrified if they knew how I was secretly painting them. If they did have a zimmer, they'd clout me with it.

What's really intriguing is that other people must sometimes be hiding equally inappropriate images of me. Somewhere out there some unlikely, innocent-faced person is privately hoping I get stabbed to death in a dark alley. Though at my age, I can't see many people picturing me in a semi-naked bedroom romp.

PS: I fantasise about all sorts of things, but I also find it easy to accept reality. An unusual combination, it seems.

Political disbelief

There are two schools of thought about politicians. One is that they genuinely care about us, they're doing their best for us, they're basically upright, decent people who put in long hours on a gruelling job.

The other view is that, with a few notable exceptions, they're devious, dishonest rogues who're only interested in winning votes, feathering their own nests and clawing their way to high office.

I tend towards the second view, as I've said before. Jenny tends towards the first view (particularly as she spent four years as a local councillor in London and I have to say was an extremely conscientious and hard-working one).

But having lived through umpteen governments from Clement Attlee onwards, and having been constantly disappointed by broken promises, the yawning chasm between rich and poor, shoddy public services, and inability to confront vested interests, it's hard to give any politician the benefit of the doubt.

What makes it worse is that when challenged on their failures, they usually refuse to admit them and maintain everything is going fine, spouting a load of carefully-chosen statistics to prove it. Oh for a few Obama-style politicians with the courage to say honestly and frankly "Yes, I screwed up."

This trail of incompetence and slipperiness is exemplified by the furore over banker Sir Fred Goodwin's £700,000 a year pension at the age of 50. The pension was signed off by government minister Lord Myners, who apparently hadn't consulted any of his colleagues.

Now the whole country wants the pension cancelled, but it's a contractual agreement that can't be touched. And this deal was okayed not by a bunch of elitist Tories but by a minister in a supposedly egalitarian Labour government. It makes me want to weep and beat my chest with utter disbelief.

Arm alarm (2)

A father's letter to the London Independent describing his son’s reaction to Cerrie Burnell's arm is so wonderful it's worth quoting verbatim:

My six year old son is an avid watcher of CBeebies. I quizzed him as we watched the channel.

I asked him if he liked Cerrie.

“Yes, he said. “A lot.”

“What’s the most noticeable thing about her?” I asked.

“She’s got lovely hair” he replied.

“Do you notice anything different about her?” I asked.

“No” he said.

“What about her hand?” I said, by now feeling that it was like getting blood from a stone.

“She always waves goodbye with her left hand” he finally answered.

Did that bother him, I asked.

“No” he said.

Why, I asked.

“She has to wave with her left hand because she doesn’t have a right hand.”

Bored with my conversation, he went back to watching the show.

I supect my son is typical of the children watching CBeebies. I also suspect that it’s prejudiced parents who are frightened of disability, not their children.

Michael O’Hare, Northwood, Middlesex.

PS: I've removed the label 'disability'. Isn't that a prejudicial term in itself?
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The Independent today features a woman who has been been regularly refused work as a model - because she's deaf. Excuse me, but how does deafness affect your appearance exactly?

Arm alarm

People's irrational prejudices never cease to astonish me. There have been demands for a TV presenter to be taken off screen because her incomplete arm "might scare the children".

Twenty nine year old Cerrie Burnell was born missing the lower section of her right arm. It's not a big problem for her but it clearly is for some viewers who complain that their children are "asking difficult questions" and "might have sleep problems".

Some of the comments received on the BBC's website were so venomous they had to be removed. What on earth stirs such extreme reactions to something so harmless?

Yes, it might upset children who haven't seen such a thing before, but many aspects of everyday life can be alarming on first acquaintance. Coming to terms with these things is rather more mature than trying to hide them and pretend they don't exist.

If the critics don't think Cerrie should be showing herself to respectable society unless she looks "normal", what do they want her to do instead? Shut herself away somewhere where nobody can see her, keeping herself to herself and not embarrassing those with delicate sensibilities?

Their attitude seems to be that only those with a complete, fully functioning body are socially acceptable and anyone "incomplete" should hang their head in shame and crawl away into a corner.

Well, if anyone should hang their head in shame it's those who can't see someone like Cerrie as a human being rather than something freakish and monstrous.

I'm glad to see that thousands of people have come to her defence and said they see no problem with her TV appearances. Several charities have also supported her and regretted that people's attitudes are still so narrow-minded.

Tell you what, Cerrie. You just go, girl, and ignore the pea-brains.

Nick in a nutshell

I'm not very keen on memes, but I rather like this one that's going the rounds at the moment. So here goes:

I am: a non-conformist, job-free, romantic, vegetarian, androgynous socialist.

I want: only a comfortable and mentally stimulating life. I've no desire for wealth or luxury.

I have: my own house, a soulmate, a few friends, no enemies, good health, a lively mind.

I wish: there could be more peace and harmony in the world instead of violence and conflict.

I fear: a poverty-stricken, lonely, painful or senile old age. And hate-filled bigots.

I search: for greater understanding of myself and other people, and more emotional sensitivity.

I wonder: at the miracle of existence, of planet earth and all that lives on it, of human imagination and inventiveness.

I regret: virtually nothing. I have had a good life in which things have usually turned out for the best.

I love: Jenny, good food, art, books, music, beautiful scenery, human warmth and tenderness.

I always: admire honest, principled people who stick up for what they believe in, come what may.

I usually: feel optimistic about the future and what it will bring; and see the best in people.

I am not: an angry, jealous, hateful, begrudging, regretful or obsessive person.

I dance: if I get the chance. There's something very liberating and cathartic about it.

I sing: along to CDs, much to Jenny's annoyance.

I never: go to church, wear dresses, go skiing, go to the opera, drink red wine, eat meat, watch football.

I rarely: think of myself as old, buy clothes, go to the doctor, feel bored.

I cry: very seldom. A frustrating result of male conditioning. I wish I could cry more easily.

I know:* a lot about obsessive compulsive disorder, transsexuality, motor neurone disease, Buddhism.

I need: intellectual stimulation, love and affection, self-confidence, to see the funny side of life.

I should: be more adventurous, more persistent, more caring, more industrious.

Amazing how much you can reveal in a few sentences....

* I've invented a new one!

Thanks to: Hullaballoo, Suburbia, and Fat Frumpy and Fifty

Pleasure seekers

Companies may be collapsing in droves because of the economic crisis, but one business that's flourishing like never before is sex toys.

Shops and firms that market them report surging sales as the old image of seedy backstreet dives full of shifty men in dirty raincoats has been ousted by a more enticing picture of uninhibited men and women routinely enhancing their pleasure.

Sales of sex toys are up by a staggering thirty to thirty-five per cent on a year ago. They're increasingly given as presents - even wedding gifts. One company suggests the platinum vibrator with diamonds (£2275) for the bride, and the gold-plated ones (£227) for the bridesmaids.

After all, if the credit crunch means you can no longer afford that up-market restaurant or that designer dress, you can always stay at home and get your pleasure a cheaper way. Well, maybe with plastic rather than platinum.

To cater for all tastes, there are even environmentally-friendly sex toys like feather tickle-sticks and wooden spanking rulers.

Of course the rising popularity of sex toys has prompted criticism that they are just a new source of female insecurity, leading women to think their sexuality can only be fully enjoyed with an expensive, designer-label gizmo. On the other hand, whatever floats your boat, as they say.

Apparently men no longer feel threatened by vibrators, fearing their male functions to be redundant. Now they realise a little technical help in that department can be handy, increasing the pleasure for both them and their partner.

So the next time you wander into that distinguished restaurant and find it's deserted, there could be a simple explanation. All those missing diners have finally sliced up their credit cards and taken to their beds.
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Goodness me, it's my second blogiversary this very day. Have I really been churning out this drivel for as long as that?
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Jade Goody was rather upstaged at THAT wedding by Jack Tweed and his pals leaving home in nothing but scanty female underwear. Brilliant! A hearty thumbs-up for cross-dressers everywhere!

You're nicked!

Yes, it's that familiar tirade. Haven't the cops got anything better to do? Why aren't they going after the real criminals rather than nicking people like me for totally trivial offences?

The other night Jenny and I went to see "Rachel Getting Married" and then popped into our favourite Indian restaurant for a meal. All very enjoyable, lots of relaxing chatter and gawping. Then we headed back to the car.

A ****ing parking ticket! Some ****ing pettifogging jobsworth with nothing better to do had decided to amuse himself/herself by clocking me for "parking within 15 metres of a junction, causing obstruction to other drivers' views".

God give me strength. I wonder how many thousands of times I've parked next to a junction. Likewise every other driver on the road. And what hazard are we causing exactly? How many people have I killed and injured? Any advance on zero?

Yes, it's a technical offence. So yes, I'll have to cough up. But really, is this the best possible use of police time? Is this the highest priority for our over-stretched, paperwork-laden police officers?

There are drivers out there smashed out of their heads on drink and drugs. There are arsonists burning down factories. There are teenagers dropping rocks onto motorways. There are thieves beating pensioners black and blue. But never mind all that, let's find something dodgy about that little blue Clio. Aha, it's in the wrong place. It's not where it should be. Gotcha! Bang to rights!

Stupid ****ing bastards.

(My apologies to a certain blogger with relatives in the police force. Nothing personal....)
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Sales assistant: I'm sorry, your credit card's invalid.
Customer: Why, has it expired?
Sales assistant: No, your credit card's fine, but your bank's expired.

Who needs him?

So what if you don't have a boyfriend or girlfriend? So what if there's nobody sharing your bed? Does it really matter?

Those of us who've got a partner, who're used to being brought cups of tea, or having a shoulder to cry on, or just finding the washing's been done, might think the choice is obvious.

It's a struggle being on your own, right? Nobody to help with anything, nobody to keep you company, nobody to make you laugh. Not much fun, eh?

Kate Mulvey, who calls herself a Post Modern Spinster, has no patience for other people's patronising, condescending put-downs of her chosen lifestyle.

She writes in The Times that she doesn't feel at all deprived or deficient. The idea of marriage gives her the heebie-jeebies and she certainly doesn't see herself "ferrying kids to and from parties".

I relish having all my time to myself and doing exactly what I please, she says. I don't have to neglect my career, or make constant compromises, or never get enough sleep, or hide my trashy magazines.

Why should I hitch myself to someone else, she asks. It's not the nineteenth century, I'm not going to end up in the workhouse.

Mind you, she seems to think finding a man has to mean marriage and children. Well, that's a bit nineteenth century, surely? Can't she just live with him?

Who needs even that, she says. He may seem like Mr Perfect to begin with, but chances are that in a couple of years he'll either be Mr Sulk, Mr Unfaithful or Mr Slob. Who needs him? Why bother?

PS: Isn't it strange that single people are assumed to be unhappy, unless proved otherwise, while with couples we assume the opposite?

Photo: Kate Mulvey and one of the pleasures Mr Wrong can't comment on....
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The world-famous gigastar Dame Edna Everage turns 75 this week. Happy Birthday, Ma'am! What a woman! What an inspiration to confused, insecure young girls the world over! Her pithy advice on every subject is seldom equalled.

Free to agree

Johann Hari, a journalist on the London Independent, has stirred fierce controversy by defending the right to free speech and the right to criticise religions.

There were riots in Calcutta after an Indian newspaper reprinted his article, and the editor and publisher were arrested. Johann himself has received death threats and been condemned by religious fundamentalists for not showing "respect".

His opponents argue that religious ideas are unique and can't be discussed freely. Challenging any of their beliefs is "offensive", "abusive" and "prejudiced". He must keep his mouth shut and not interfere.

And what was he criticising? The stoning of adulterous women, the hanging of gay people and girls being forcibly married to their grandfathers. Practices so disgusting that any civilised person would want to end them.

But oh no, apparently he's not entitled to get angry over such barbarities because religion is a special case. If your god tells you to hang gay people, so be it. You have the right to do anything you like in the name of religion and nobody can stop you.

This claim to religious immunity is extremely dangerous. If it really takes hold and enough people support it, the long-standing tradition of free speech will be seriously threatened. Instead of being able to speak our minds, we will have to watch every word we utter, in case some religious fanatic objects and cuts our tongue out.

There is nothing "unique" about religious beliefs, nothing that sets them apart from any other kind of beliefs. They're merely ideas, to be accepted or rejected, proved or disproved, like ideas in general. And we're all entitled to do the assessing and have our own opinions.

To say we aren't is to subscribe to a very sinister political creed, the one that among other things caused World War Two. Its name is fascism.

Looking for love

I like Valentine's Day. I always ruminate on love and what makes it blossom - or wither on the vine. It's one of life's eternal mysteries.

I didn't fall in love myself until I met Jenny at the age of 34. I had wanted to fall in love many times but somehow it never quite happened.

I dated plenty of women. I kissed them, cuddled them, sometimes went to bed with them. We swopped our life stories, shared our enthusiasms, laughed at each other's quirks.

Each time I wondered if it was love. But each time it would gradually peter out. As hard as I tried, that vital spark was missing.

What was I doing wrong, I asked myself? Everyone around me was falling in love, finding their soulmate, getting married even. It seemed to come to them so easily. Was I being too fussy? Was I emotionally stunted? Was I afraid of intimacy? Was I really gay? Was I just not the falling-in-love type? I found a hundred reasons for love's elusiveness, but still it failed to find me.

The clock kept on ticking. Birthdays came and went. Likely women entered my life and disappeared from it again. I began to think falling in love must be an illusion.

All these besotted couples aren't really besotted, they're just clinging to each other because it's expected, because they're lonely, because they're desperate. This thing I'm chasing after is a mirage, a dream, a novelist's invention. But it was no good, I still believed in it and I still pursued it.

And then of course I met Jenny. Quite out of the blue, when I was least expecting it, our paths crossed and suddenly something ignited. And the rest, as they say, is history. A surprisingly long and satisfying history. A relationship that just gets deeper and deeper. What was the magic formula? I didn't know then and I don't know now. It's just one of those extraordinary miracles that leaves you gasping.

Old and dumped

When the economic slump began, I wondered if the traditionally vulnerable groups would get the sack first. Unhappily they have, with us oldies hit the hardest. So much for anti-ageism laws.

From September to November, unemployment of up to six months among Britons over 50 climbed by 30 per cent. For younger age groups, the biggest increase was only 12 per cent.

Pretty shocking statistics when only recently the British government passed new laws that were meant to prevent age discrimination and give us oldies a fair deal for a change.

But as I said earlier, if employers are determined to find loopholes in the law and kick out oldies regardless, those loopholes will appear. And a TV programme a few days ago explained them.

Of course employers aren't stupid enough to say "Sorry, you're too old. Get lost". So the assorted oldies on the programme had been given all sorts of euphemistic refusals, such as "You're over-qualified", "You'll be bored", "You won't fit in", "The culture won't suit you" or "We're looking for someone dynamic". Cleverly worded excuses that wouldn't get a legal action very far.

Employment agencies simply "lost" the CVs they received from older workers.

At the same time those approaching the official retirement age of 65 are still being shown the door, because the law still allows sackings in certain circumstances which employers are only too willing to exploit.

So it rather looks as though I might be unemployed for some time, unless I fancy sweeping the streets or dishing out parking fines. But would the street sweeping culture suit me, I wonder? And would I be dynamic enough?

PS: Women are getting shat on as well. They're twice as likely to get sacked as men. No surprises there....