Green conundrum

I must admit I'm very two-faced about the idea of a looming global crisis. I see all the terrifying headlines about the imminent collapse of the planet, and I just don't take them as seriously as I'm supposed to.

I tell myself the scientists know what they're talking about, and I'm keen to do my bit to prevent catastrophe, but at the same time I want to continue the same comfortable lifestyle I'm used to.

I know flying is highly polluting, but it doesn't stop me jumping on planes. I find a dozen ways of justifying it, from the futility of personal boycotts to the much worse pollution of deforestation or farting cows.

Do I leave my equally toxic car to rust away in the garage? Of course not. I can't possibly rely on the vagaries of public transport to get me where I need to go. And I've frozen to death at bus stops once too often.

Much as I agree with slashing energy use, I'm not quite prepared to shiver through the winter or dump all my household appliances to stop the odd Arctic glacier melting.

I suppose deep down my problem is this - if the environmental crisis is so colossal and so desperate, then it can only be averted by lifestyle changes on a scale far exceeding the petty tweaks and gestures of well-meaning individuals.

However much I'm told that every little bit helps, we all have to pull together, it's a joint effort blah blah, I can't help feeling that everything I'm doing is a mere drop in the ocean that counts for little.

At the end of the day, a threat this big has to be confronted by national governments. Relying on individual goodwill is a bit like rearranging the deckchairs as the Titanic heads for the iceberg. Or fighting Hitler with Dad's Army. There's just too much at stake.

Hate walls

Despite the peace process, there are still dozens of peace walls in Belfast keeping sectarian factions from laying into each other. And the number isn't going down, it's going up.

There's a big controversy around the plan for a brand-new 25-foot peace fence next to, of all places, an integrated* primary school. It seems thugs are going through the school grounds to attack nearby Catholic homes.

The Northern Ireland Council for Integrated Education is saying, hang on a minute, why a 25-foot fence? What attempts have been made to find a less drastic solution through negotiation, discussion and the involvement of the local community? Why is the only answer a crude physical barrier?

At this rate, North Belfast will finish up as one long peace wall from end to end, Berlin-style. Is this the best we can do?

The irony is that we in South Belfast never see the peace walls, unless we have reason to go through the north of the city. For us, they're as unreal as they are to the rest of the world, bizarre structures we only see on TV when there's a local flare-up.

One reason for the permanence of the peace walls (or should I say hate walls) is that the politicians find them a big embarrassment. They prefer to ignore them and pretend sectarianism has died and we're all saying a cheery hello to the neighbours over the freshly-trimmed privet.

They're unwilling to admit the walls are a continuing scandal and that some serious work is needed to get them all dismantled.

They may be a fashionable attraction for tourists who fancy a little frisson of ghoulish horror, but the long-suffering residents are desperate for a normal life that doesn't involve being in a Colditz-type compound 24 hours a day.

When are the warm handshakes at Stormont going to be matched by warm handshakes across the real-life sectarian divides?

* with both Catholic and Protestant pupils

The price of fame

Millions of people are pining desperately to be celebrities - to swap their dull, everyday lives for a spell in the global spotlight, their every move watched and remarked on by the teeming masses.

I can't think why. Myself, I couldn't imagine a more horrible fate than being scrutinised and dissected by every voyeuristic Tom, Dick and Harriet who feels like passing an idle moment with a bit of mindless celeb-gawping.

I'd be trapped in my own home, protected by state of the art security systems and unable to walk the local streets in case I'm attacked by a stalker, besieged by shrieking fans or simply stared at like a monkey in the zoo.

I'd have to watch my appearance like a hawk to check I was thin enough, glamorous enough, confident enough, youthful enough. A few surplus ounces or a crumpled jacket and the media would pounce, telling the world I was letting myself go and my career was on the skids.

Even if I sought refuge on some far-flung Pacific island, the pararazzi would follow and snatch illicit shots of me in the buff, smooching with some unknown beauty who would then have to go into hiding herself.

Worse still, I would be a sitting duck for every journalist and passing low-life to heap abuse and contempt on me whenever the urge took them, on the grounds that (a) if I put myself in the public eye then I'm inviting custard pies and (b) I have to pay the price for my privileged lifestyle.

Who needs it? Why would anyone want to put themselves through all that for the sake of banner headlines in the tabloids? And to those who say, ah but it would be worth all that to have shedloads of money and untold luxury, well sorry to buck the trend but I prefer being able to slouch down the street in my worn-out jeans muttering to myself without the entire British population sneering at my degenerate habits over tomorrow morning's cornflakes. Anonymity? It's just fine by me.

(see also Paparazzi no thanks)

PS: Talking of celebs, Happy Birthday to the gorgeous Julian Clary, a spiffing 48 tomorrow. Julian's columns in the New Statesman are just LMAO funny.

Lying politicians

I really want to believe in politicians. I really want to believe in their promises, their beaming smiles, their grand plans. I truly want to believe that once they're elected, the country will be a better place and all our lives will be happy and complete.

But I don't. I just don't. I've seen so many politicians over so many decades, and been betrayed and let down by so many of them, that I no longer have any faith they'll do what they say.

What else can I think when the new English Wonder Boy, the new Saviour, Flash Gordon himself, who on Thursday had promised us all genuine 'democratic accountability', had on Friday - the very next day - agreed that MPs should not be subject to the freedom of information provisions.

I can't say I'm surprised. I don't kid myself any more. Politicians lie. They lie all the time, day in and day out. They lie about everything. They lie about the small things, they lie about the big things. They lie about weapons of mass destruction, cash-for-peerages, ending poverty, ending sectarianism. The list is endless.

What's more, they know they lie and it doesn't bother them. The only important thing is gaining power and keeping it, and if that means lying shamelessly, so be it. I could cite one or two honourable refuseniks like Tony Benn and John McDonnell, but of course they're the exceptions that prove the rule.

Cynical, moi? Not at all, just clear-eyed and realistic. I've seen so many false dawns and rude awakenings in my time - from the insipid socialism of Harold Wilson to the mass unemployment and industrial carnage of Margaret Thatcher - that the harsh truth stares me in the eyes.

There's only so many times you can trust those grinning faces before you realise they're all different versions of Jekyll and Hyde. There's a good reason why the popularity ratings always put politicians at rock bottom, with estate agents and car salesmen.

So much as I would like to put my faith in one of those earnest, well-scrubbed faces pleading for my vote and promising me another great leap forward - sorry, guys, don't hold your breath.

Tipsy town

Is it insulting or flattering that a new survey finds Belfast to have the biggest boozers in the UK? Depends on your point of view, I guess, and your own partiality for the liver-eating liquid.

The survey by PCP of Luton, a company that rehabilitates hardened drinkers, found that people in Belfast spend an average of £47,568 on alcohol in their lifetime.

Leaving aside exactly how they arrived at that figure, which a trained statistician would probably rip to pieces (and actually it works out at only £2 a week more than the next booziest city, Cambridge), it certainly makes me think about Northern Ireland's astonishing capacity for boozing, on every possible occasion on the flimsiest of excuses ("Hey, I found the budgie - fancy a drink?")

That £47,000 is a hell of a sum. Just think what you could do with it instead - a hefty deposit on a house, a trip round the world, an incredible number of CDs, or a huge wardrobe of designer clothes.

Visitors from other countries are constantly dumbfounded by the British and Irish tendency for relentless drinking - not just a glass of wine to embellish a meal, but pint after pint of the stuff until they've literally taken leave of their senses.

It's not just recklessness or hedonism. Scientists say some people have a special metabolism that can digest rivers of alcohol without a serious physical reaction (apart from hangovers, that is). In other parts of the world, people simply can't process such an overload of booze so they drink very little.

Personally I take after the latter, as I've never been comfortable with more than a glass or two of alcohol, even as a wild teenager. More than that can bring an instant headache and almost complete incapacity the next day. I'm always amazed by the ability of other hangover-struck individuals to act completely normal and compus mentis.

It's ironic that with such widespread religious observance in these parts, there are so few teetotallers, or even light drinkers. Somehow people manage to square their insatiable urge for a brimming tankard with a God who teaches moderation in all things.

Is it possible that one day we'll learn to appreciate quality over quantity? I'll drink to that!

Interview pitfalls

I've done plenty of interviews in my life, but they never cease to be nerve-shredding occasions. However well-prepared I think I am, so often there's something unexpected to trip me up.

I might start off confidently enough, with fluent answers showing my obvious suitability for the job in question, but how easily it can all be derailed. Sooner or later, any of the following may occur:

1. One of the interviewers reminds me of Basil Fawlty and I spend the entire interview trying desperately not to laugh.
2. I'm asked a totally unexpected question ("So why did your grandmother leave Romania?"), my mind instantly goes blank and I'm left staring inanely at the panel.
3. One of the interviewers is so aggressive I have a mounting desire to pick up the water jug and empty the contents all over them.
4. I accidentally upset the water jug and it soaks everything in sight, including all the job applications.
5. I realise a box of condoms has fallen out of my trouser pocket (I can't even recall buying it).
6. One of the interviewers is sweating profusely, and my increasingly bizarre theories as to why this should be are hopelessly distracting me (I'm pretty sure they've just had a quickie with someone in Accounts).

If my guardian angel is on the ball, none of the above happens and the interview goes swimmingly. If my luck is firmly out, I'm assailed by every mishap possible and wish I was anywhere else in the world but there.

But the upshot can be surprising. What I perceived as a perfect interview, wowing the panel with my glittering personality and dazzling expertise, leads to a deafening silence and polite evasions when I pursue it a week later.

On the other hand, the seeming interview-from-hell, where everything went arse-upwards from minute one and I virtually crawled out on my hands and knees, is followed an hour after by a job offer and the revelation that I was "the outstanding candidate". Who can fathom it?

I think one reason I stay in a job for quite a stretch is simply the terrifying prospect of another round of anxiety-ridden interviews en route to my next perch. Never mind a cure for cancer, what I need is a miracle drug for interviews. Oh, and strawberry-flavour, please.

(see also Flirty's Embarrassing Interview Experience)

Far too thin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(see also Size Zero)

Abortion limbo (2)

The embattled Miss D, the Irish 17 year old who sought an abortion but was doggedly obstructed by the Health Service Executive, has now thankfully been given the go-ahead by the Irish High Court.

The court says she is free to travel abroad to have the abortion (which the law forbids her in the Republic).

They've ruled that the HSE was acting quite improperly in preventing her from carrying out her decision, and confirmed that there is no statutory or constitutional bar to her leaving the country for this purpose.

The HSE is left with a large quantity of egg on its face, while Miss D can at last decide the future of her baby without outside interference.

I wish her well and hope she has the emotional and psychological strength to deal with the loss of her potential child.

Of course this whole legal wrangle wouldn't have occurred if it was easier to get an abortion in the Republic and the Church didn't still have such a stranglehold on all those in a position to change the situation.

The Church's censorious view on abortion doesn't even reflect the general feeling of the Irish people. Since 1967 an estimated 45,000 pregnant women have voted with their feet and travelled to Britain for terminations. They are prepared to defy the law and lie about their nationality to achieve their wishes. Just how long will this desperate exodus continue?

(see also Abortion Limbo)

Digging for gold

Well, who'd have thought it? Under a soggy carpet of peat, heather and gorse near Omagh in County Tyrone, grazed by innocent sheep for generations, lie around 14 tonnes of gold, worth tens of millions of pounds. And there could be a lot more.

Farmer Sam McKinley was staggered when he heard the news. He thought the only benefit of the Cavanacaw bog was his glowing skin after tending the sheep on a summer's day.

But yes, there really is gold in them thar bogs. Enough to compete seriously in the global gold jewellery business, worth £3 billion. Enough to produce rings, earrings and pendants as good as those last made by Celtic goldsmiths in the Bronze Age.

The company running the new mine is called Galantas - Gaelic for "elegant thing". The sole jeweller in Omagh selling Galantas gold has been almost cleared out, such is the demand. They've had customers not just from Northern and Southern Ireland but as far away as Brazil. A price tag of £1,200 on some items is no deterrent.

Local residents still can't quite believe something so glamorous has emerged from Omagh, the town best-known up till now for the Real IRA car-bomb that killed 29 people in August 1998, the worst single atrocity of the Troubles. Now Omagh will be known for jewellery as beautiful as the pottery from Belleek, a few miles away on Lower Lough Erne, and the glassware from Tyrone Crystal at nearby Dungannon.

It's a well-deserved economic boost for this pretty and unassuming town, perhaps providing some compensation for the dreadful misery unleashed on it nine years ago.

And who knows what might be lying under all those other bogs? Has anyone got a spade?

(For more details, see today's story in the Independent)

Abortion limbo

The Republic of Ireland may be rushing into the future at breakneck speed and shedding its insular past with gusto, but when it comes to abortion, attitudes are still remarkably strait-laced.

Miss D, who is 17 and four months pregnant, is asking the Irish High Court to restrain the Health Service Executive from stopping her going to Britain for an abortion.

She has been told her baby has a medical condition which means it won't survive for more than three days after birth.

Her mother supports her wish for an abortion, but the HSE has opposed it, informed the Gardai (police) and actually prevented a passport being issued so she is unable to travel abroad.

The reason she wants to travel to Britain, like many other pregnant women before her, is because abortion is still illegal in the Republic, except when the mother's life is at risk or she is suicidal.

As Breda O'Brien writes in the Irish Times: "A police state where women suspected of being pregnant could be prevented from leaving the country would be utterly repugnant."

It is still not accepted in the Republic that it is up to women to decide whether they want to continue a pregnancy or not. The State and the Church still insist on getting involved, despite the widespread opposition of women who have increasing autonomy in virtually every other area of life but not in this one.

It may well be the case that some women who have had an abortion later regret the fact and feel profound grief and remorse. They may also suffer medical complications that mean they cannot conceive again. But the risk of traumatic consequences is no reason to take away a woman's right to control her own pregnancy and decide whether or not she wants her baby.

The High Court is due to make a decision sometime this week. I sincerely hope they decide in Miss D's favour. But how absurd that this issue is on their agenda in the first place.

PS: Here in Northern Ireland the law on abortion is so confused the Department of Health is about to issue detailed guidelines on provision for it. This follows pressure from the Family Planning Association which is working to increase women's reproductive rights.

Marriage vows

Jenny and I didn't intend to get married. We had been happily living together for 14 years and didn't see any point in doing the paperwork as we knew we were firmly committed to each other.

Then one day J was told that if she died her local authority pension could only go to her husband. Cohabitees of whatever vintage counted for nothing and wouldn't get a penny. We chewed this over for a while and wondered whether we should swallow our scruples and go legal or leave our future finances to chance.

We decided to get married strictly as a piece of creative accounting, with the simplest ceremony possible. No way was it going to escalate into a mortgage-size white wedding with all the trimmings, 200 guests, a five-course banquet and a fleet of limousines. We would just have felt consumed by something out of our control, like Jonah being swallowed by the whale.

Managing to keep our parents well out of it, we arranged a 10-minute hook-up at the local register office, with a couple of good friends to witness the magical moment when we gazed into each other's eyes and agreed to share our pension entitlements. Oh, and our passionate devotion.

Then, what better way to build up our strength for the nocturnal obligations of marriage than some sumptuous aphrodisiacs at our favourite eaterie, washed down by the best aphrodisiac of all, a few generous glasses of champagne. All in all, a very enjoyable and stress-free marriage which did the business without us feeling railroaded into some stifling extravaganza.

I know lots of people (like Flirty) will think I'm a hopeless spoilsport and party-pooper, pouring cold water on what for many couples is obviously an occasion for the biggest and most uninhibited celebration they can muster.

Well, if that's what works for them, I sincerely wish them every happiness, but personally I can't see how a £25,000 bash would have made our nuptial vows any more serious than a solemn promise in front of two valued friends. Different strokes for different folks, as they say.

Mother knows best

My 85 year old mother, bless her, is quite convinced she knows best about everything, and no amount of reasoned counter-argument from me makes any impression. Frustrating in the extreme.

If I mention my creaky knees, she always blames it on short coats that don't cover my legs. In other words, damp knees. But in that case, mother dear, every swimmer in the country, and everyone taking regular baths, would have no knees left.

When crime comes up, she's adamant it's all down to single mothers and broken homes. Stable families with two parents couldn't produce anything but little angels and rosy-cheeked choirboys, even if all the neighbours are burglars and car thieves.

Knowing that I seldom shop around for the cheapest bargains, mum sees me as hopelessly profligate, squandering money like water and being shamefully ripped off by greedy shopkeepers. But I'm not wasting hours traipsing the streets just to save a few quid, I explain. Which cuts no ice with Mrs Canny-Shopper, The-Woman-Who-Can't-Be-Diddled.

No sooner do I mention our two cars, indispensable in a city with minimal public transport, than mum insists we could make do with one. With the odd taxi, a bit of walking, a bicycle, and more reliance on the local shops, we could manage easily. Er, not really, mum, only if I was a hermit living on bowls of rice and doing nothing but contemplating my navel.

I can argue my point of view till the cows come home, but mum stubbornly stands her ground, listening politely and then promptly repeating what she told me before. I'm obviously mistaken and it's her maternal duty to put me straight.

I guess mothers never quite lose that air of authority they have to acquire when they're a new parent steering their vulnerable offspring towards autonomous adulthood. Although I achieved that state many decades ago, she still thinks I need her guiding hand on the tiller. And her years as a primary school teacher probably reinforced that fond belief.

Still, better a bumptious mother than a clinging one. Or a mother who doesn't give a damn about her children and only cares about property prices and gin.

(NB: Photo is not my mother. Thank you once again, Google images)

The mystery of arson

Who can understand why people set fire to beautiful natural landscapes like the Mourne Mountains, destroying rare plants, spoiling wonderful scenery, and threatening the lives of both livestock and walkers?

Over the last month hundreds of fires have broken out at beauty spots all over Northern Ireland, many started deliberately, and fire fighters have had to work in treacherous conditions on mountainsides, sometimes in the dark, to stop the fires spreading uncontrollably.

The latest fire on Thursday was at Black Mountain, a spectacular area overlooking Belfast and recently acquired by the National Trust.

I can't imagine what anyone gains from such pointless acts of destruction. The people who do this must somehow have been taught not to respect and cherish beautiful things but to resent and wreck them. And perhaps to resent other people who enjoy that beauty, for having a source of pleasure they don't have.

So having scarred these unique landscapes, what do the wreckers feel? Perhaps a sense of childish glee and triumph that they have shown everyone their hatred. I can only wonder how a person's upbringing can go so horribly wrong without anyone noticing or trying to restore a healthier attitude.

But back on the mountains, the worry is how to stop more fires breaking out. These are tracts of land so large and so sprawling they can never be effectively patrolled. If someone's determined to start a fire, they will. The only hope is some level headed friends grabbing the matches and hiding the petrol.

As someone who's spent many happy hours scrambling around the Mourne Mountains (just today I climbed Slieve Donard in brilliant sunshine), I feel sad there are people out there who just want to damage them and cover them with smouldering debris. How fragile is beauty, and how easily betrayed.

(See also Mountain Fever)

Maidens pursued

It's a weary cliché that older men are often attracted by a much younger woman and launch into a passionate affair or even end up living with her and ditching their existing partner.

Personally I've never understood this tendency, and I can't recall ever being seriously enticed by a woman many years my junior.

There's still an ageist assumption that younger women are more beautiful, more lively, more adventurous and more in-the-know, but I see qualities in older women that more than compensate for that rather rose-tinted checklist.

An older woman may have more lines and wrinkles but not only do they add character, they are a sign of all that experience and acquired wisdom that many twenty somethings just don't have. She's knocked around a bit, lived through rough times, and tried a lot more dishes on the menu. The result is someone with plenty of shrewd observations on any situation.

I know some younger women have packed an amazing amount of experience into a few years and can be just as astute, but I've met many others who simply haven't done enough to acquire truly original insights into life's complexities. They may be tireless clubbers or fearless backpackers but beyond that their horizons can be limited.

Of course what many men see in younger women has nothing to do with their brains but plenty to do with their slim, unblemished bodies and their resemblance to teenage girlfriends or their first romantic glimpse of their wife to be.

All too often they end up making awful fools of themselves, disappointing their restless lovebirds, being thrown out by their devastated wives, or both. They realise too late they were chasing after an empty mirage and failing to appreciate what they already had.

No, give me an older woman any time for sheer worldly-wise, tried-it-all knowingness, as well as a much deeper compassion for the flaws and failings of other human beings, having had time enough to discover all of their own and no longer expecting Mr (or Ms) Perfect to walk through the door. Give me a vintage wine over this year's beaujolais any day.

Paparazzi no thanks

It must be a relief to Northern Ireland's celebrities not to be ruthlessly pursued at all hours of the day and night by totally immoral paparazzi itching for a salacious shot of X in her underwear or Y snorting cocaine.

This predatory media stalking, so routine on the Other Island, simply doesn't happen here. Famous names can just get on with their everyday lives, doing the shopping, taking the kids to school, sunbathing in the garden, and the snappers simply aren't interested.

That's because we regard their private lives as their own business and nothing to do with us. Why do we need to know that presenter A is cheating on her husband? Or that model B likes kinky sex? It's their work we're concerned with, and the rest is strictly off limits.

Furthermore, there just isn't the gulf between the famous and the non-famous that exists elsewhere. Here the famous aren't remote, inaccessible figures living in a world of their own and seen as fair game for constant prying and snooping. In a small society like ours, they're just one of us and entitled to the same dignity and respect.

Also we put a much greater emphasis on the family and family values, and we don't approve of any behaviour that undermines the sanctity of the family and its independence. Photographers lurking behind the garage would be as welcome as the bailiffs or a passing paedophile.

Then again, we take the attitude that if other people are going through difficult personal problems, they need some space to work through them in their own time and in their own way without prurient outsiders poking their nose in and making the problem worse.

We don't share this malicious English tendency to kick someone when they're down, to sneer at their bad luck and try to finish them off completely. No, we love our celebrities, we're proud of them, and we protect them fiercely from unsavoury attentions. The likes of Donna Traynor and Noel Thompson* are national treasures and not to be trifled with by common oiks.

* the presenters of BBC News Northern Ireland

Donegal dream

The big dream of many people in Northern Ireland is to retire to a little cottage set in the stunning scenery of County Donegal and spend a blissful decade or two doing all those things they didn't have enough time for when they were working - angling, golf, walking, maybe even surfing or scuba diving.

A cabbie this morning was telling me that in eight years' time, when he's 60, he hopes to buy a little place in Donegal and put the urban hurly-burly behind him. He'll sit on the river bank with his fishing rod thinking of nothing in particular and just waiting for something to bite.*

The only trouble is, too many other people have the same idea. For years now Donegal has had a serious housing crisis as outsiders muscle in to buy retirement and holiday homes, pushing property prices sky-high and preventing the locals getting a home of their own, particularly the children of low-income farmers. To add insult to injury, the second homes (a quarter of the housing stock) lie vacant and unused most of the year while the homes of local people are bursting at the seams as children and grandchildren are squeezed uncomfortably into them.

Why is Donegal the great Mecca anyway? Yes, it's very beautiful but so is most of Northern Ireland. Which is why the same problem afflicts the more desirable parts of this country too, like Portstewart and the north coast towns. It's getting more and more fashionable to have a second home you can tootle off to when the mood takes you. People are snapping up extra homes not just here but all over Europe, now the low-cost airlines have widened everyone's horizons.

Personally, I steadfastly refuse to buy a second home, whatever breathtaking bargains are screaming at me from Bucharest or Sofiya. I'm sure such purchases can only be bad news for indigenous citizens desperate for a place of their own. Why this frantic land-grabbing? Isn't one home enough for anyone?

*what a horrifying image for us vegetarians....

Bullying

We've all been bullied at one time or another, though we don't like to admit it because there's still a tendency to blame the victim - they somehow invited it, or they should have done more to resist.

I was bullied on and off for four years at the dreadful boarding school my innocent parents sent me to. I just didn't fit in with the aggressively masculine culture of the other boys - based around sport, snooker, sexual prowess and status-seeking - and they showed their disapproval by ostracising me, taunting me and hiding my possessions. What particularly galled me was the sight of the bullies trooping into chapel every Sunday and professing to be generous, compassionate Christians.

To this day I can't explain why I didn't fight back or simply run away from school. I somehow felt there was no alternative and I just had to struggle through it and not show them they were getting to me.

When I worked at a bookshop a few years ago, a new manager turned out to be a systematic bully who pushed all the staff to work harder and faster and watched us all like a hawk, ready to pounce the moment we slowed down or started to chat. Fortunately we were all union members so we could put up enough collective resistance to keep the pressure at bearable levels, but what had been an enjoyable, easygoing workplace rapidly became a seething morass of resentment and hostility. When the manager's house was burgled one day, we couldn't help letting out a collective whoop of joy, such was our thirst for revenge.

So again, why did I stay there and not instantly hand in my notice? I think because despite the way the staff were treated, we all got on famously and we were loathe to move on in case we jumped out of the frying pan into the fire.

But it's still alarmingly common for the victims of bullies to be told it's somehow their fault. Women subject to merciless sexism are told they can't take a joke or are too over-sensitive. Boys picked on by other boys are told they should toughen up and brazen it out. Seldom are the bullies themselves confronted and told they should grow up and treat others with respect. And line managers who should be intervening turn a blind eye and pretend nothing's happening.

Despite all the anti-bullying declarations popping up in every organisation like spring daffodils, the reality has hardly changed and there are still an awful lot of people living miserable lives because of the continuing assumption that bullying is nothing more than the rough and tumble of everyday life. What are you making such a fuss about? For God's sake, just get a grip!

PS: Have a look at this excellent piece on bullying and the massacre at Virginia Tech in America by a Canadian blogger.

Phantom iceberg

Thinking of the Titanic ramming the iceberg (as you do), I wondered whatever happened to the bizarre plan by Belfast artist Rita Duffy to tow an iceberg from Norway to Belfast. That was two years ago now and the plan seems to be have frozen solid – or maybe it just melted and sank.

There was a lively debate at the time over whether the plan was actually feasible or not – could the iceberg be moved fast enough to reach Belfast intact or would it just thaw at a speed of knots as soon as it reached warmer waters? Enough heat was generated to melt several icebergs but no firm conclusion was ever reached and Rita herself had nothing to add.

She’s maintained a glacial silence on the subject ever since so I have to assume the whole idea was either a clever publicity stunt or a brilliant kind of conceptual art in which you just imagine the work of art without ever seeing anything physical.

She pictured it so vividly it’s almost as if it actually happened – surely I remember that colossal mountain of ice moored off Bangor and all the goggle-eyed locals unable to tear themselves away from the amazing spectacle? Or the well-heeled Gold Coast residents rowing out to it and hacking off lumps of ice for their next cocktail party (as one cynic suggested on Slugger O’Toole).

Of course it would probably be forbidden on safety grounds anyway – a massive iceberg in Belfast Lough would be an obvious hazard to shipping the same as the one that wrecked the Titanic. With the rising number of cruise liners surging up and down the lough to show off our newly fashionable city to curious tourists, there would be a fresh disaster waiting to happen.

I don’t think Northern Ireland would ever live it down if another liner hit another iceberg and the exhausted survivors clambered ashore at Bangor Marina. Those struggling to stay alive would probably give up on seeing the unspeakably hideous concrete embankments protecting all the luxury yachts.

So does anyone know – has the plan just been put on ice or is it dead in the water?

Camping it up

Jenny has always had a yen for camping but ever since my hellish camping experience as a teenager, I've been dead against it. Once bitten, twice shy, as they say.

My grim memory surfaced when I heard of the sudden surge in the number of UK campers - up by 7 per cent, particularly among women - which is reflected in the growth of camping and caravan sites here in Northern Ireland. In fact Millisle on the Ards Peninsula is quite disfigured by the acres of caravans nudging the shoreline.

But nights under canvas aren't for me. As a tender 13 year old Boy Scout, I was persuaded to spend two weeks camping in Yorkshire, and what a mistake that was. It rained non-stop for a fortnight so we were squelching around Glastonbury-style in thick mud. All the tents leaked and kept us sodden. The food was inedible and impossible to cook properly. There was nothing whatever to do. And the scoutmaster was lurking in the background looking for dishy boys he could cuddle up to. Was I glad to pack up and get back to civilisation.

Yes I know tents and caravans these days are supposed to be quite luxurious and element-proof but I'm just not going to risk it. I'm used to hotel bedrooms with all mod cons and en suite bathrooms and I won't give them up without a fight.

The problem we have here is that most of the roads are still single carriageway and in the summer it's common to be stuck in a long line of cursing motorists following a nonchalant caravan that's trundling along at a steady 30 mph. Of course caravan buffs are entitled to their holiday of choice like the rest of us, but maybe if they hit the road at dawn (or midnight) and not at midday it might boost their public image a little.

But really, why spend your well-earned holiday leave roughing it in a field when you could be standing on the balcony of your 4 star hotel room gazing at say, the Mediterranean? I'm sure such spartan, rough-and-ready living is very environmentally sound and does Margaret Beckett a power of good, but it's just not my cup of tea.

On not having children (2)

An Irish-born reader from Toronto has pointed me to the Ann Landers survey/straw poll from the 1970s which found that the vast majority of those who had had children regretted the experience and would not have children if they had to live their life again.

Ann Landers, a famous agony aunt with a syndicated advice column in North American newspapers for 45 years, published a letter from someone wondering whether to have a child or not. She was deluged with 10,000 responses of which 70 per cent said "Don't do it."

They were very sad and emotional letters, giving all sorts of reasons for their conclusion, in particular: people who didn't want to bring kids into such a messed-up world; parents who said their children had ruined their marriage; people whose children virtually ignored them once they left home; and parents of teenagers in serious problems with things like crime, drugs and joyriding. They went into parenting with high hopes but sooner or later got disenchanted.

Many of them said their relationships were great until the babies came along and everything went downhill from there. One woman wrote: "I was a successful, attractive, career woman before I had these kids. Now I’m an exhausted, shrieking, nervous wreck—too tired for sex, conversation or anything else.”

How come nobody had realised how disenchanted so many parents were? Because it was virtually taboo (and often still is) to voice negative feelings about your kids. Ann Landers pointed out that while it is just fine to moan about your wife or husband, or your mother-in-law, parents are still expected to praise their children and say that child-rearing is a blessing.

For more details of the poll, go to Happily Childfree

PS (October 20): Emilia has pointed me to a properly designed survey which actually got a very different result from the Ann Landers straw poll. That found only 9% of parents regretted their decision to have children, quite contrary to the Landers conclusion. In that case, glad to hear so many parents are actually happy with their lot!