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.
.................................................................................

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!!

The honour police

I'm immensely grateful I'm not part of a community that expects me to beat or mutilate any woman who has brought "shame" on my family by damaging our "honour".

I don't understand how any man who carries out such arbitrary punishments can live with himself. Presumably because he does it in the name of morality and decency. As defined by him and his puritanical brothers, of course.

Umpteen "offences" will put a woman in their sights. An unsuitable boyfriend. Objecting to an arranged marriage. Lesbianism. Revealing clothing. Make-up. A request for a divorce. Exposing domestic abuse. If the men say it's wrong, it's wrong. No arguments. No protests. Just do what you're told, woman.

Around 3000 "honour" attacks are recorded by police every year in the UK. And that's just the ones they get to know about. Many others go unreported because the victims are too terrified to say anything.

It might be obvious to us that what really brings shame on a family is bigoted attacks on its female members and attempts to stop them leading independent and fulfilling lives. But the "honour" vigilantes have a peculiar code of conduct all of their own.

At the end of the day, I guess it's only women standing together and demanding their freedom who can stop this reign of terror and get their lives back. And that takes an awful lot of bravery.

Pic: Banaz Mahmod, 20, from Mitcham, South London, was strangled on the orders of her father and uncle because she left her violent husband for a new boyfriend they deemed "unsuitable".

Dishonesty

Come on, admit it, you're a wee bit dishonest, aren't you? Only a wee bit. Just now and again.

According to this handy quiz*, I'm extremely dishonest. Or that's how they see it. As I see it, I bend the rules when I think it's justified. Being systematically dishonest is something quite different.

Anyhow, how would you score for dishonesty? Do you think the following are ever justified?

1) Fare-dodging on public transport
2) Cheating on taxes
3) Speeding
4) Keeping money found in the street
5) Lying in your own interests
6) Not reporting accidental damage to a car
7) Dumping litter in a public place
8) Driving under the influence of alcohol
9) Inventing things on a job application
10) Buying something you know is stolen

I don't think 6,8, 9 or 10 are ever acceptable, but I think the others are sometimes okay, depending on the circumstances. If I find a £10 note in the street, and it's highly unlikely anyone would bother to claim it at a police station, then I pocket it. So would 80% of the population. Of course it's technically dishonest but in reality it's unimportant.

I think the type of dishonesty that really matters, and which funnily enough they don't mention, is dishonesty to your loved ones and friends. To lie to your partner about a secret bank account, or a secret lover, or a secret porn stash, is pretty shabby. That I would never do, not that I have any of those anyway. But without complete trust between you and those close to you, relationships are fatally damaged.

As for dishonesty among prominent public figures, which seems to be increasing at an alarming rate, let's not even go there. We'd be at it all day.

* Shamelessly and dishonestly filched from The Independent

Under a cloud

Can you imagine what it's like to be falsely accused of murdering your son for 25 years before you're finally cleared of all wrongdoing? It must be sheer hell.

The police questioned Elizabeth Watkins of Winston-Salem, North Carolina, immediately after her son's death in 1987 but then released her without charge. That wasn't good enough for the locals, who were convinced she had killed her six-year-old son Nicholas.

Her other son and his father were also convinced of her guilt and broke off contact with her.

After 25 years of living under a cloud of suspicion, it must be a colossal relief to at last be free of it.

A new inquiry into her son's death has concluded that he wasn't murdered but was killed by a pack of dogs. How tragic that detectives didn't investigate more thoroughly at the time and discover the non-human cause of death while unhealthy suspicions could still be nipped in the bud.

But just imagine the festering feelings of injustice and rage and despair that must have addled her life and crushed the sort of enjoyable, freewheeling existence that most of us take for granted.

And the sick feelings of betrayal and humiliation as relatives, friends and acquaintances all refused to believe her declarations of innocence and continued to assume she was capable of slaughtering her child.

And the feelings of burning impotence as she could find no way of proving to the outside world that she had nothing to do with the death. Presumably she had no alibi for her movements at the time.

Now she has somehow to put all those miserable years behind her and try to recreate a more normal life in which she is once again an unblemished and respected member of the community. Without an awful lot of sincere regret and generosity on other people's part, that's going to be quite a struggle.

Pic: Elizabeth Watkins

Rough sleeper

No, there's not an epidemic of insomnia, there's just a lot of people out there obsessed with getting "a good night's sleep."

Take no notice of all those "experts" with their miracle cures and relaxation techniques. Ignore all those warnings that if we don't sleep for eight straight hours, our health is in jeopardy.

It's all a load of bollocks. Even if we only get two hours' sleep, we can still function well enough the next day. And sooner or later our body will catch up on the missed sleep if it needs to. So throw all the dire warnings in the bin and relax.

I'm finally taking this more laid-back approach after years of erratic sleep patterns and failed attempts to get the vaunted "proper night's sleep." Instead of cursing the fact that I've woken up at 2am and trying in vain to doze off again, I've at last accepted that waking up doesn't actually matter and I may as well just stay cool and use my unexpected wakefulness to read a book, surf the net or send a few emails. And have a cup of tea and a biscuit. Maybe after a while I'll nod off again. Or maybe I won't. It doesn't really matter.

I know perfectly well that I've had nights of minimal sleep and spent the next day just as alert as if I'd slept like a log. If my brain rejects sleep, then perhaps it doesn't need it. But the idea of "a good night's sleep" is deeply embedded in our childhood by solicitous parents.

In the past I've tried sleeping pills but they were useless. I didn't fall asleep any quicker, and when I finally awoke I was so groggy it took me hours to get my brain properly focussed. Since then I've never tried any other "remedies" and I've gradually learnt to go with the flow instead of trying to force my body and brain to do what they don't want to do.

Wide awake at dawn? So what?

Bad dreams

I have a problem. It's my dreams. They're not what I expect them to be. They're seriously dysfunctional. They're totally out to lunch.

What I want my dreams to consist of:

1) Glimpses of paradise
2) Sun-kissed oceans
3) Snow-clad mountain peaks
4) Golden beaches
5) Tropical islands
6) Lush rain forests

What they actually consist of:
1) Missing the last bus
2) Losing my way
3) My house collapsing
4) My teeth falling out
5) The car exploding
6) Being chased by a shadowy figure through a derelict building

I've put in an official complaint. This simply isn't good enough. The price I pay for my annual dream package is astronomical, and then I don't even get what I signed up for. I don't even get the requested number of dreams per night. I'm supposed to have a hundred and it's more like half a dozen. And then they're in black and white instead of colour. What do you have to do to get a decent service, eh? I might as well not dream at all.

Now there's an idea....

Local knowledge

What a difference it makes to a holiday when you're not just an ignorant tourist but you know one of the locals who can guide you to all the special places you would otherwise have missed.

As a typical tourist you're entirely reliant on travel guides and what you happen to hear from hotel staff, bus drivers or other semi-ignorant tourists. You end up in places that are popular but not very interesting, and in eateries that are adjacent but hardly mouthwatering.

In Melbourne we were very lucky to have our good friend Kath who was endlessly generous with her time and local knowledge and took us to one fabulous place after another. To the wonderful Mornington Peninsula, the Dandenong Ranges and the Yarra Valley, where she led us to a brilliant out-of-the-way art gallery and the Domaine Chandon winery, where we sampled some excellent wines (and I got pleasantly light-headed).

Not only that, but she also introduced us to her family and several friends, who gave us all sorts of insights into Aussie lifestyles and interests that don't make it into the travel guides. Her brother told us all about his work as an immigration officer interviewing new entrants to Australia.

She also took us to all the best local cafés, restaurants, burger joints and ice cream parlours, as well as a superb bookshop (Readings).

What more could we want? At the end of the week I was starting to feel like a native Melbournian rather than a clueless visitor trying to find my way around. I felt completely at home, connected to the city much more strongly and intimately than before.

So thanks for everything, Kath, you added so much to our visit. It was really hard to drag ourselves to the airport and return home.

Spirit of Oz

Okay, it's about time I satisfied your burning curiosity as to where I've been. The answer is, to Australia! A week in Adelaide, a week in Sydney and eight days in Melbourne. In Sydney Jenny and I met the wonderful Kylie and the equally wonderful Helen (again) for a catch-up over a Turkish meal.

So how do I sum up our latest Aussie adventure? Well, how do Aussies compare with the Brits? Some big differences come to mind:

1) They worry about bushfires and are ready to evacuate their homes in a hurry.

2) They worry about water shortages and keep their water use to a minimum.

3) They worry about skin cancer and slap on litres of sunscreen. Which is why they're mostly as pale-skinned as the Brits.

4) They love beaches, barbecues, surfing and swimming. Just as long as the sharks keep their distance.

5) They love anywhere that has ice-cold air-conditioning, though if it's a fashionable restaurant or café steaming heat is no obstacle.

6) White Aussies are taking more interest in aboriginal culture and giving it the same importance as the settlers' culture. Unfortunately many aborigines are rejecting their own culture in favour of alcohol, drugs and child abuse.

7) They take space and sprawling homes for granted, unlike us Brits in our cramped, congested cities. Oz is a big, big country with space galore to spread out in.

8) They're competitive about their cities. Sydney's better than Melbourne. Melbourne's better than Adelaide. Tell you what, guys, every city has its own charms and failings. Why the jockeying for position?

9) Most Aussies are only interested in Oz. Other countries seldom feature in the news unless there's some strong Aussie link. The eurozone crisis seems to have passed them by.

10) They're seriously devoted to wine. There are hundreds of wineries and cellar doors (shops), all bristling with afficionados sampling what's on offer. But how come their home-produced wine is so pricy when they're overflowing with the stuff?

I felt very at home in Oz this time round. Maybe because I've been to all three cities before. Maybe because Aussies are so keen to enjoy themselves - unlike all those British tightarses.

I didn't want to go home. And not just because of the gruelling 20-hour flight. The Spirit of Australia is more than a Qantas catchphrase.

Undesirables

Do you ever contemplate all those things that should never have been invented, never seen the light of day? Here's my very own list of ten things the world could do without....

1) Ties. Utterly pointless and unattractive. Politicians and car salesmen are no more plausible in a knotted thing.
2) Shoelaces. Come undone when you're out walking. Get knotted when you're trying to undo them.
3) Binge-drinking. What's the big attraction of drinking yourself senseless and getting liver disease?
4) Powerpoint presentations. Telling you what you already know, or don't need to know, in a soporific visual format.
5) Chat shows. Thinly disguised advertising in which evasive celebrities trot out predictable personal clichés.
6) Plastic surgery. Self-mutilation as the answer to self-loathing. How weird is that?*
7) Starters. Two or three expensive mouthfuls of some trifling little "delicacy". I'd rather get stuck into a proper plateful of food.
8) The colour orange. Hideous on just about anything except the fruit. Orange means "I have no taste."
9) Musak. Shops that play mind-numbing background music. I'm straight out of the shop before my brain turns to mush.
10) Family trees. I couldn't care less about my great great grandfather or my second cousin twice removed. I don't care if they were millionaires or tramps. It's what's happening now that interests me.

Okay, don't tell me, you like nothing better than binge-drinking after your plastic surgery, wearing your bright orange pants and your bright orange kipper tie. If that's the case, I don't like you any more and I shall have to exclude you from my inner circle of suave and enlightened intimates. Please don't darken my doors again.

* I should add that I have nothing against plastic surgery for sound medical reasons like correcting disfigurements.
.................................................................................

I won't be blogging for a while. Nothing to worry about, in fact something very very exciting! Will tell you all about it later....

Deathbed regrets

If you're on your deathbed, the chances are you'll be reflecting on your life and how well or badly it went. And in many cases, you'll be regretting something or other you didn't do, or didn't do whole-heartedly enough.

An Australian woman* who spent many years looking after dying patients and listening to what they said about their lives has come up with a fascinating list of the five major regrets they mentioned most often.

1) "I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me."
2) "I wish I hadn't worked so hard."
3) "I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings."
4) "I wish I'd stayed in touch with my friends."
5) "I wish I'd let myself be happier."

How sad that so many people feel their life was a false one and they repressed their real self, hid their feelings and stifled their happiness. We still think far too much about other people's expectations, or imagined expectations, and feel we have to change our own behaviour accordingly. It's very hard to just be yourself, however bizarre or outrageous or inappropriate this might seem to others.

How common too that people wish they hadn't worked so hard and spent more of their time enjoying their own personal pleasures, or doing things with their partners or children. Sometimes this is our own fault, chasing after perfection and unachievable goals. Sometimes it's the nature of the job and long hours are necessary simply to get the work done. But either way, it's not healthy.

And how difficult it can be to stay in touch with friends when we're all leading such busy lives. When we're rushing from one urgent task to another, friendships can easily be neglected for so long they lapse altogether. Then a few years down the line we discover all those bosom buddies we used to have such fun with have somehow vanished. And our psychological well-being suffers.

What a shame we don't take a good look at what we're getting out of life while there's still time to do things better. Once you're on your deathbed and heading for oblivion, it's too late.

* Bronnie Ware is a writer and singer/songwriter from New South Wales.

Losing your looks

How withering it is to say of someone "Of course she's losing her looks." So many awful implications packed into one short sentence! So many sexist and ageist assumptions so blandly expressed!

What does it actually mean? First, that the person is no longer attractive or sexy and no longer so appealing to potential boyfriends or girlfriends, or their spouse. They'll be struggling to date anyone or stir their partner's passions.

Second, that your looks naturally change from a positive feature to a negative one as you age. As soon as a few wrinkles or a bit of sagging flesh appear, this can't be anything but a turn-off to other people.

Third, that you've lost something rather than gained something. You've been depleted, belittled, made less significant.

Fourth, that you've passed your peak and are now generally going downhill. You're declining, deteriorating, falling apart.

No wonder many women who're told they're losing their looks (or who think it as they gaze critically into the mirror) feel somewhat depressed and alarmed. With the battery of confidence-shattering assumptions the phrase conjures up, it's hardly surprising. They feel they're heading for a dismal future of being ignored and downgraded which they can do little about given the inevitability of the ageing process. The desperate rush to plastic surgeons for a make-over is grotesque.

And how unfair that men are much less likely to be damned with the same phrase. It seems men don't so much lose their looks as become more distinguished and venerable, or even charmingly avuncular. Even if there's hair sprouting from every orifice, they have a pot belly the size of a cauldron and skin like a farmtrack, nobody seems to notice and criticism is strangely muffled.

How refreshing it would be if people were seen as changing their looks rather than losing them, and if a much-wrinkled face was considered no worse or better than a wrinkle-free one. How uplifting if wrinkles were seen as a sign of wisdom and experience and not as some sort of personal disability. How heartening if taut-skinned teenagers weren't so absurdly over-rated and idolised and were given their proper value in the scheme of things.

And pigs might fly.

Just a joke

Blistering outrage as the famous petrol-head and loudmouth Jeremy Clarkson says public-sector strikers should be executed. So far over 22,000 complaints have been received by the BBC.

Some people insist it was just a stupid joke. Others believe he was being deliberately inflammatory and offensive.

Whatever your opinion, it once again raises the tangled question of whether to allow total free speech, however outrageous and vicious, or whether to restrain people with a battery of legislation.

The UK has a mass of laws forbidding discrimination and hate-crimes, and promoting equal treatment for all citizens. But it's often asked firstly if such draconian laws are necessary and secondly if they actually work.

There seem to be remarkably few court cases relating to any of the equality laws, even though scandalous examples of homophobia, misogyny, racism and workplace favouritism and bullying go on day after day.

The legal constraints may act as a deterrent in more formal and public settings where prejudice will be immediately visible and acted on, but in more private situations many people are still happy to mouth off and ostracise as freely as they like.

Okay, so laws will always be flouted if people can get away with it. They may be only a limited restraint on inflammatory behaviour. But without them all hell would break loose and we'd see the sort of mass-hatred that in other countries leads to routine beatings, lynchings and executions.

The local equivalents of Jeremy Clarkson aren't just making mindless "jokes", they're running amok with machetes and machine guns. I don't want to go down that road.

Pic: Jeremy Clarkson

Jenny has a related post on living with diversity in Northern Ireland