A warm welcome

What a wonderful way to welcome new women employees to your office. Circulate pictures of them to the male employees and ask for a rating of the top ten most attractive recruits.

Wouldn't that make you feel good? It wouldn't? What's the matter, lost your sense of humour, love?

Unluckily for the 17 men who did exactly that at an Irish branch of Price Waterhouse Coopers, a journalist discovered their jolly jape and alerted their managers. But only after the pictures were forwarded to other firms and then flooded the internet.

The company is now promising a full investigation and say they will "take all necessary steps and actions."

Apart from wondering how the 17 men had the time for such concentrated ogling, it baffles me how they could possibly see such an exercise as a welcoming gesture. The answer presumably is that their intention was never to be welcoming but to put the women in their places as bits of totty whose specialist skills are of no importance.

I can only imagine what the 13 women felt, as none of them has had the courage to speak out. Shock, horror and embarrassment probably don't begin to describe their feelings at being turned into a global public spectacle for the amusement and sexual frisson of countless horny males.

They joined the company expecting to be seen as productive and valued employees, only to be relegated to pin-up status in a leering beauty contest.

They rapidly discovered that their male colleagues may look polished and professional in their crisp little suits, but underneath lurks the same old swamp of misogynist crudity.

PS: Incredibly, many of the media stories include all 13 pictures, which only encourages further circulation. My link is now to the story in the Irish Times, which doesn't include the pictures.

PPS: And when are we going to see pictures of all the 17 men, with their names and personal details? Somehow I think their identities will be carefully hushed up....

Pic: Fiona and Sharon check out the Top Ten Ugliest Male Employees at Soddit and Halfwit Ltd

Guilt

Guilt is an ambiguous thing. It can be a healthy feeling of regret and the need to put something right. Or it can be a hopeless neurosis, a constant brooding over past mistakes.

Men are assumed to be low on guilt, just ploughing ahead regardless and not too worried about the consequences of what they do. Anyone who objects is seen as an oversensitive fuss-butt, unable to deal with real life.

Women are thought to be guilt-ridden, forever wondering if they've caused offence or not been generous enough or treated someone badly. They're always ready to apologise, declare their own shortcomings and make frantic amends.

I have to say I follow the male pattern here. I seldom feel guilty and I tend to think that if something I do causes some unexpected disaster or distresses someone, it's really just bad luck. Of course I'll do what I can to put things right, but I don't lose any sleep over it and I don't beat myself up over my miscalculations.

It occurs to me though that if men were a bit more prone to guilt, a lot of the horrendous massacres and barbarities they've carried out across the world wouldn't have happened. If they could feel a shred of human empathy with the victims of their atrocities, they wouldn't be capable of them.

But too much guilt can paralyse a person and make them so timid and hesitant their whole life stalls. They blame themselves for everything and can't accept that shit happens despite the best of intentions.

A smattering of guilt helps us to be civilised. But too much of it can be a millstone.

PS: Is there a difference between regret (feeling you did something wrong) and guilt (feeling bad about it)?

Old and past it

I'm devastated to have to tell you that I'm being replaced as the presenter of nickhereandnow on account of being "too old and wrinkled and generally past it."

The new presenter will be gorgeous, pouting Veronica Trinket, aged 25, the glamorous supermodel and fashionista. "I'm looking forward to this exciting new opportunity" she gushed. "I don't know anything about blogging but I'm keen to learn."

I had an unexpected phone call from Simon Hatchett, Human Resources Director of the British Blogging Corporation, on Friday morning.

"I don't like to say it, Nick," he said, "but someone has to. There's a general feeling that you're a bit over the hill and due for retirement. To be frank, your face looks like a mountain path and your eyebags are bigger than my wife's tits. A bit of botox and plastic surgery might do the trick, but I hear you believe in natural ageing."

"I certainly do" I spluttered. "You heartless monster. You moronic crowd-pleaser. Don't you realise I'm the one who creates the unique flavour, the special ambience of nickhereandnow? How can that possibly be left in the hands of some gormless anorexic coat-hanger? Are you insane?"

Needless to say, my protests fell on deaf ears. I'm dispensible, I'm yesterday's cheeseburger, I'm a laddered pair of tights. I've got to go, the sooner the better.

But I'm not taking this lying down. I shall join the sacked BBC Countryfile presenter Miriam O'Reilly (53) who is suing the BBC for sex and age discrimination, and sue the pants off Mr Hatchett.

And don't be surprised if gorgeous, pouting Veronica is involved in a very nasty accident.

Pic: starving but wrinkle-free Veronica Trinket

Smoke alarm

I haven't much sympathy with workplace smokers, but the new tendency to make them clock out and clock in whenever they take a fag break does seem a bit over the top.

Apparently a number of local authorities are now asking smokers either to clock out while they smoke or work overtime to compensate.

Not surprisingly smokers are objecting to being singled out for penalties. What about non-smokers who waste their time on the internet or Facebook? Or make themselves a cup of coffee? Or spend ten minutes gossiping with a workmate? Or spin out that out-of-office trip to do a bit of shopping? Shouldn't they be penalised as well?

The truth is we all sneak little breaks from work to give ourselves a boost or fend off a heavy workload for a while. Either we should all be sanctioned or nobody should. It's hardly fair to jump on smokers and nobody else. I'm with the smokers here.

Those non-smokers who claim to feel resentful about 'privileged' smokers should look more honestly at their own personal indulgences and the little work-avoidance tricks they themselves get up to. If they aren't careful, they could find themselves hoist by their own petard.

We all have our dodges, especially if we've had decades of work-experience to suss them all out and refine them into barely-noticeable spells of truancy. One of the vital skills to pick up on your first job is the art of ingenious skiving. But still, that's another subject altogether.

Still together

Curious as we are, there are questions we hesitate to ask long-established couples, because there's always a sub-text that's a bit dodgy.

Like "So how come you're still together after 17 years?" which translates as "But you're like chalk and cheese. You squabble all the time. You like completely different things. Surely you should have split up ages ago?"

Secretly you keep wondering how they continue to rub along after so many years. Surely they've both changed so much they must now irritate the hell out of each other? But you just can't ask. It implies all the wrong things.

Even less can you ask "So how's your sex life? Still going strong?" because there's always the awful possibility they gave up on it long ago, or one of them has bizarre sexual tastes the other finds repulsive.

Asking if they're the same fiery political radicals they used to be can be hazardous too. You might find one of them's done a stealthy U-turn and become a crusty old bigot railing at the feckless and the workshy.

It may be that that old-established couple is just as compatible and besotted as they were on day one. They may still get on like a house on fire. But asking too many leading questions is inviting disaster.

Instead of a cheerful confirmation that they've never been closer, you might suddenly get frosty stares, shifty evasions and elaborate lies. Or even a bitter rant about how their other half doesn't understand them, is an obsessive control freak, or is emotionally paralysed.

Wiser just to enjoy their company and their apparently still viable relationship than to broach those delicate questions you're dying to ask. They could backfire dramatically.

And naturally Jenny and I remain as compatible and besotted after 29 years. How could you suggest anything different? What do you mean, how's our sex life? What do you mean, are we still fiery political radicals? How dare you, what a cheek. What is this, the Gestapo? Kindly leave the premises immediately....

No, the pic's not me and Jenny, just a happy-looking couple!

Meat rage

Just why do meat-eaters have to be so viciously abusive to vegetar-ians? I mean, what is their problem?

Harriet Walker in the Independent directs a tirade of insults against us meat refuseniks as if we were some alarming social menace. So what did we ever do to her except decide to eat differently?

Referring to the PETA* ad in which a scantily dressed Pamela Anderson is marked with the sort of prime cuts you see in a butcher, she says " Let's face it, there's nothing sexy about vegetarianism. As the thousands of beardy, socks-and-sandals wearing diehards will attest, this advert is the raciest thing to have happened to the movement since Linda McCartney."

Well now, Harriet, let me point out a few things:

1) Why should vegetarianism be sexy? It's a diet choice, not a miniskirt. If I want sexy, I'll watch a Penelope Cruz movie.

2) I don't have a beard and don't wear sandals. I do wear socks though, since tights might raise a few eyebrows.

3) Oddly enough, women vegetarians don't have beards.

4) I'm no more a diehard than those who insist on eating meat and dismiss vegetarianism as rabbit food. I simply dislike the unnecessary killing of animals.

5) The advert is only racy if you think a bikini-clad Pamela Anderson is cutting-edge erotica. In this day and age, I think not. And again, why do stuffed peppers and pumpkin risotto have to be racy? Is there nothing free of sexual innuendo?

Still, perhaps we should be more sympathetic. Such irrational torrents of abuse are of course a typical side-effect of eating large quantities of meat. She really can't help herself, she's the victim of an uncontrollable addiction. I do hope she gets better soon.

*PETA: People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals

Naked fury

Nude protests are catching on. Those intrepid souls who don't mind baring all their physical imperfect-ions are doing so to oppose a wide range of injustices.

The latest campaigners to shed their clothes are those angered by high apartment rents in Berlin. They visit apartments on offer, strip off and dance.

The protests are organised by a group called Hedonist International, which has also stormed a neo-Nazi pub.

Some estate agents called the police while others were more laid-back and laughed it off as a harmless amusement. But Berlin's socialist mayor was rattled enough to announce rent-capping in newly-gentrified districts.

There have been many other nude protests - against the fur trade in Dublin and Barcelona, office dress codes and airport full-body scanners in Berlin, political reforms in Mexico City, animal cruelty in Sydney, bullfighting in Pamplona and tree felling in Los Angeles.

Naked campaigning isn't favoured in Britain though. I guess people are either too embarrassed by their wobbly bits, they don't think anyone will take any notice (except dirty old men), or they don't want to die of frostbite.

I wouldn't mind stripping off myself if the cause was right. I couldn't care less about my wobbly bits, we all succumb to gravity sooner or later. I stripped off often enough in front of my fellow pupils at boarding school to lose any sense of awkwardness.

Maybe the traditional British stiff upper lip is more than a match for mass nudity. We'd just survey a line of bare buttocks while sipping our Starbucks latté and mutter casually "Some rather enticing curves. Work-outs or anorexia, I wonder?"

Pic: Protest against the fur trade in Barcelona. The placard reads: "How many lives for a coat?" Couldn't find a decent pic of the apartment protest.

Too outspoken

Should a teacher who thinks schools are appallingly run speak out in public or should she be quiet and keep her frustration and rage to herself?

Katharine Birbalsingh, Deputy Head of St Michael's Academy in South London, gave a scathing speech to the Tory Conference, saying state schools were badly run, bureaucratic, dumbed-down and tolerant of unruly behaviour.

Fairly common opinions, you would think, shared by thousands of teachers and parents across the country. Not exactly controversial. Even Ofsted, the schools supervisory body, condemned her own school as "inadequate".

But she has now been sacked after the Head and school managers decided her speech was unacceptable and she should have kept her mouth shut and pretended school standards were just fine.

She has taught in state schools for over a decade, so she knows what she's talking about. She thought it was about time someone spoke up and told the truth.

"British education is not just broken, it is fundamentally broken. Teachers are too scared to speak out because they think they'll lose their job" she says.

Regardless of whether you think the Conservative Conference was the right place to speak out (she's a Conservative supporter), the question is whether she has a right to voice her revealing and thought-provoking opinions about a schools system that virtually everyone is dissatisfied with.

If her speech helps bring about some much-needed changes, then why should she be penalised for it?

She says she worked a 70 hour week "because I love children and I like making life better for them." I fail to see how sacking her helps either the children she's dedicated to or the "inadequate" school which clearly needs a good kick up the administrative arse.

Pic: Katharine Birbalsingh

Lost masterpiece

So I thought I'd say something about the meaning of life, the history of the universe and the global epidemic of existential angst.

- Ssh. Time for some silence.

- What do you mean?

- Silence is very therapeutic. It cleanses your inner being.

- That's as may be. Who're you anyway? Who said you could take over my brain?

- Oh, I've been running your brain for a long time. You were making such a mess of it, I was asked to step in.

- That's outrageous. You can't just jump into my brain. Bugger off right now.

- I'm only doing my job. You'll thank me for it later.

- You'd better be gone in five minutes. Now as I was saying, the meaning of life in a nutshell, stripped down to its basic essence, is this....

- There're huge parts of your brain you're not even using. Did you know that?

- Don't be ridiculous. My brain is as busy as a beehive. The level of activity is breathtaking.

- There's a bit here that's completely dormant. The bit that contains the literary masterpiece of the 21st century.

- Good grief. How do I activate it?

- It needs a special password. Do you know it?

- No. Fuckity fuck fuck. Buggery bollocks. So I'll never write it. It's lost in a neurological black hole. I could have been another Dostoevsky.

- Too bad. At least you enjoy pink frocks and six-inch stilettos. Goodness, is that the time? Must rush, I've got another ninety brains to fix before lunch.

- As I was saying, the meaning of life....

Unsightly smalls

You'd think a humble clothes line in someone's back garden would be pretty uncontro-versial. Well, think again, because in the States it's becoming a serious bone of contention.

Many householders hate the things. They think they're ugly, vulgar, over-intimate and spoil the look of the neighbourhood. They want to get rid of them completely.

But other people are all in favour. They see them as a natural and sensible way of drying clothes that's also environmentally-friendly. They want everyone to use them.

Temperatures are rising, and not just in the tumble-driers. Line-lovers are deliberately flouting their landlords and neighbours and hanging out their clothes to dry anyway. So take us to court, they say. It won't stop us.

They point out that tumble-driers use about 10 per cent of household electricity, second only to fridges and freezers. This is a colossal waste of energy when energy consumption is going through the roof. And what's so ugly about a clothes line anyway?

Jenny and I always use a clothes line in good weather. Or drying racks inside when it isn't. We've never used a tumble-drier and don't intend to start now. We know that clothes dried outside always smell fresher and cleaner when we bring them in.

Nobody gets steamed up about clothes lines round our way. You can see them in every other garden, even draped with lacy underwear. Nobody thinks they're unsightly or unseemly.

Okay, so our clothes line doesn't sport many fashionable designer labels. Some of the clothes may be past their best. Some may be ten years old. We don't care and nor do the neighbours. There are more serious things to get our knickers in a twist about.

Drawing a line

A cruise entrepren-eur visiting a new terminal at Portsmouth was shocked to discover that passengers on his five-star cruises might come across smelly, shirtless, unshaven lorry drivers. This would ruin the luxury ambience, he said.

As well as whiffy lorry drivers there would be young people lying around and customers might trip over them. Lord Sterling of Swan Hellenic wants the cruise passengers to be segregated from the unsavoury hoi polloi to "create a certain atmosphere".

I presume that means an atmosphere of snobbery and elitism well away from the unwashed minions who drive their caviar and oysters across Europe.

Actually segregation might be a good idea. Then the lorry drivers and fun-loving youngsters wouldn't be made to feel uncomfortable and awkward by the sneering glances of the well-to-do as they embark on their exclusive £8000 cruises.

They could take off their sweaty shirts and sprawl around without feeling inhibited. They could even play loud music and flaunt their tattoos without anyone cramping their style.

The cruise passengers could have a special deluxe lounge where they can enjoy each other's fully-dressed fragrance, properly seated in well-padded chairs, and aren't forced to endure the trauma of irregular behaviour and uncouth habits.

Lord Sterling is quite right to be concerned. If you just had any old person mixing with any old person, who knows what unpleasantness it could cause? One's tolerance is limited, dontcha know? One has certain expectations and too much lowering of standards does rather strain one's fortitude. One has to draw a line somewhere, dammit.

Now where's that steward with my G and T?

Off the boil

I don't understand anger. I'm a pretty placid, patient person, and when I see other people fuming and raging about something I wonder where all that boiling energy comes from.

My father was an extremely angry person. Not half an hour would go by without him raging about something or other - the government, my mother's messiness, my own messiness, his boss, other people's bad manners, young people, you name it.

It wasn't altogether surprising when he suffered a stroke and discovered his blood pressure was way too high. But that didn't stop him flaring up about one thing after another. He seemed to see everything and everyone as a personal affront, out to annoy him and make his life difficult.

When I was ten, my lovely grandma took me aside and advised me not to grow up full of anger like my father. It would only make me unhappy, she said. For some reason I was so struck by what she said that I resolved from that moment not to be an angry person but to be more philosophical.

And so I have been. All my life I've found it difficult to get angry about anything. People who know me are always flabbergasted if I get seriously angry, they assume something enormously traumatic must have occurred.

I just don't see the point in getting angry. To my mind, it seldom achieves anything except to make a difficult situation worse and to alienate people. Decisions taken in the heat of anger tend to be either disastrous or badly flawed. The energy it consumes leaves me drained and battered.

I know that if I take a deep breath, stay cool, and assess the situation calmly and carefully, I'll react far more sensibly than if I explode in anger. Other people will also react more sensibly, not being cowed and intimidated by a violent outburst.

Some people think that by not getting angry I'm repressing some vital part of myself, something healthy and life-enhancing. I don't think so. I see it as taming a rather primitive and destructive emotion that tends to cause more harm than good. I have no time for it.

PS: If it's repressive to avoid anger, then isn't it also repressive to modify any kind of unpleasant behaviour, like rudeness or malice? That would be absurd.
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Finally met up with the wonderful Grannymar, who's been a blogmate for around three years now. I thought I knew all about her but there was plenty more to find out. We were amazed to discover how long we'd been chatting....

Loss of libido

On top of everything else expected of today's women, they're assumed to be hot for sex at any time of the day or night. If they aren't, they're obviously suffering from Female Sexual Dysfunction, and they need a few pills to gee them up again.

Or so goes the conventional wisdom. Which Ray Moynihan, an Australian lecturer, demolishes in his latest book.

There's no such thing as Female Sexual Dysfunction*, he says. It's a pseudo-medical disorder promoted by drugs companies to market drugs that supposedly put it right. Except that they don't because it doesn't exist.

Yes, some women aren't very interested in sex, or their interest has declined. But that's perfectly natural. They may be too busy, other things may be more enjoyable, men's behaviour may be offputting. That's not necessarily a problem. Even if they think it is, it's really a psychological or relationship problem, and counselling is more suitable than a bunch of chemicals.

How come it's "normal" for women to be hot for sex, or somehow defective if they aren't? And it's not just men who say that. It's also the agony aunts and lingerie boutiques. Nobody dares stick their neck out and say "Actually sex is no big deal. So what if you're not panting for it?"

One female journalist compares sex with shopping. You may have been crazy about shopping when you were young, but twenty years on it's just a bit of a chore. Should the doctor give you pills to make you shop more often? How ridiculous.

Women are often afraid, she says, that if they aren't interested enough in sex, their man may leave them for a woman who is. So what they're really concerned about isn't loss of libido but loss of security and status.

And if there's anything guaranteed to make you less interested in sex, it's the endless onslaught of sexual images and references in the media. We feel permanently surfeited by it, even without doing it. No wonder there are still so many women who say "Not tonight, darling, I've got a bit of a headache."

* Of course this is just a modern version of the discredited idea of frigidity

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