Home truths

I'm always curious about other people's homes - how they furnish them, what they keep in them, what gadgets they have, how spartan or cluttered they are. I love it when I'm invited into a home I've never seen before. And I'm always peeping into people's windows as I walk along the street.

The most spartan house I ever saw belonged to a friend's aunt in Liverpool. Aunt Dolly was deeply religious and refused to own anything that wasn't strictly essential. Every room was totally basic - just tables, chairs, beds and cupboards. There were no carpets, no ornaments, no pictures, no books. It would have given me the creeps if it wasn't a rather refreshing contrast to the mountainous clutter of my parents' house.

I've seen plenty of cluttered homes, with so many bits and pieces stacked everywhere I have to step carefully through the remaining spaces to avoid toppling huge piles of books, crushing the kids' toys or stepping on a pot plant. The occupants always apologise for the mess and vow to tidy up but the next visit usually reveals even more jumble and disorder.

There are homes where just about everything is faulty and needs attention but the faults are seen as a charming part of the domestic ambience. Ah yes, that door always sticks. Oh yes, that radiator has an awful rattle. And don't worry about the leak, I'll just put a bucket under it.

Some houses exude sex. The main bedroom is full of nude pictures, the bed coverings are silky and sensuous, and a titillating erotic memoir lies on the bedside table. No doubt there are drawers full of sexy underwear and vibrators but I wouldn't be that nosy.

Householders can be so obsessively houseproud you're nervous of touching anything at all in case you leave a fingerprint or a dirty mark or any trace whatever of human contact. Every pristine object looks as if it were bought yesterday and I feel like I'm in a museum. I keep expecting a security alarm to go off or a po-faced attendant to say I'm too close to something.

People's houses are full of fascinating insights into their private lives. And sometimes repulsive ones. I'll never forget the elderly London woman who kept hundreds of cats in her four-bedroom house - the overpowering stink had to be smelt to be believed. She was probably so used to it she never even noticed.

Tipping point

I've known for some time that restaurant tips added to the bill may never reach the waiter or waitress, so nowadays I either leave the tip on the table or give it to the server personally. I want my money to go to the underpaid toilers and not a well-heeled boss.

Even if the tips don't go to the boss they're increasingly treated as part of the staff salaries, and the basic untipped wage is reduced accordingly. Sometimes they're deliberately withheld as compensation for breakages or customers who leave without paying.

So I'm pleased to see the campaign by the London Independent for decent basic salaries for waiting staff and an end to the practice of tips being secretly filched by the restaurant. And I'm glad to see trade unions lining up in support.

It's about time these undercover fiddles were given more publicity and time the thousands of diners still blissfully unaware of where their tips are really going learnt the unpleasant truth.

Naturally the restaurant staff affected are reluctant to say anything for fear they'll be penalised or sacked by their employers, so often all they can do is stand by and watch diners and themselves being conned.

Not only do I always do my best to get a tip to the server, I invariably give one unless the service was atrocious. I think it's mean to find petty excuses for not giving a tip, like a dirty knife or insufficient smiling or bland coffee.

It's not necessarily the server's fault and after all, none of us are perfect. Would we accept a cut in our own wages because we didn't smile enough or we made a typo in a letter? I think not. Waiting staff are employees the same as us and deserve similar treatment.

So let's hear it for those restaurant staff like Manuel and let's stop being so sanctimonious over the crumpled napkin or the wobbly table.

PS: When Jenny and I were in the States, we always made sure to tip the going rate of 20 per cent, unlike other stingy Brits.

PPS: British government ministers have now said they will outlaw the use of tips or service charges to top up low basic wages. They made a formal pledge on the 10th anniversary of the Minimum Wage Act (July 31).

Creaking city

Although New York thinks of itself as a five-star city with a reputation for high-class services and superb hospitality, I beg to differ. Just about everything Jenny and I did ran into some unexpected glitch.

* At the Whitney Museum we went through a door marked Exit which set off an ear-splitting security alarm. There was no warning the door was alarmed.

* There was a one-hour queue in scorching heat for the Ellis Island ferry, as it goes via the Statue of Liberty. They don't have a ferry for each island.

* My plane from New York to Chicago touched down 3¼ hours late. This was put down to thunderstorms and air traffic control problems.

* The water only ran hot in our hotel room after 8 am. Before that it was cold. According to the hotel, we weren't running the taps for long enough.

* One pizzeria menu included a personal pie, a regular pie and a large pie. When we asked the waitress what sizes these were, she didn't know and recommended slices instead. It's only my second day, she pleaded.

* Virtually all the museums and galleries were closed on Monday, as opposed to Chicago where most of them opened on Monday.

* The signage to tourist venues was so poor we were forever asking people for directions. Even the Ground Zero Visitors Centre was hard to find.

* The key cards for our hotel room kept failing and we were constantly getting them reprogrammed. The hotel blamed over-sensitive locks and cards.

I could go on, but I think I've made the point. So many things weren't properly thought through, had technical faults, or were badly planned. It seems to me that New Yorkers are too complacent (or easy-going) about their malfunctioning city, and ought to be a lot more assertive and demanding.

Pretending everything is fine and making out we're just nit-picking tourists is an odd attitude to say the least. My answer is, Long Live Chicago!

Photo: The Whitney Museum of American Art

New York

So here we are in New York, which Jenny and I haven't seen for 12 years but which seems much the same. Skyscrapers hustle and bustle, tiny hotel rooms, pizza, art galore, baseball, skinny women in weeny shorts, overpaid city slickers and underpaid grafters.

The major change is of course the huge vacant lot where the World Trade Center used to be - and whose roof we stood on the last time we visited. Construction of the new buildings is now well under way.

Like Chicago, people from all over the world are mingling and working together. We went to the Immigration Museum on Ellis Island to learn how immigrants once applied for citizenship, the restrictions and prejudice they faced, and how they got by in this unfamiliar country. There are many sad and tragic stories. Some didn't even survive the dreadful conditions on the overcrowded boats.

To complement that, we revisited the Lower East Side Tenement Museum, which shows how typical families lived in an Orchard Street tenement at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries. They had to contend with grasping landlords, contaminated food, lethal infections and uncleared refuse.

Naturally we looked in at the revamped Museum of Modern Art and the brilliant Dali exhibition, complete with some of his movies. We also had a peek at the New Museum of Contemporary Art, and Pawel Althamer's strange human figures.

But my conclusion after several days here - I prefer Chicago. It seems to be going places while New York is standing still or even going backwards. The gap between rich and poor is very visible, with ragged hobos outside opulent office blocks. Air pollution is severe as is traffic congestion. The sewers always overflow after heavy rain. It feels like a city struggling to cope with limited resources. Still a Big Apple, but a Bruised one.

Photo: Ellis Island, just south of Manhattan, where more than 12 million immigrants entered the USA.

Chicago

Okay, secrecy over, I'm actually in Chicago, the city of skyscrapers and the El (the elevated subway tracks). And of course diversity.

The people of Chicago originate from all over the world. They've been coming here from other countries literally for centuries, since Chicago has always been one of the most prosperous American cities.

It feels great to wander the (very hot) streets with such a global pot-pourri, all energetically making their way in this bustling city. Every other person seems to be speaking Spanish, and a hundred cultures make themselves felt.

Most of the time this eclectic mix of people have co-existed quite harmoniously. There have been occasional flare-ups, like the burning and looting of white-owned businesses by angry blacks after Martin Luther King's assassination in 1968. But in general there's a feeling of acceptance, goodwill and openness.

Chicago is also an inventive city. It created zippers, mail-order, TV remote-control, the birth-control pill, nuclear fission, the Ferris Wheel, and of course bigger and better skyscrapers.

It's always attracted people with unconventional minds who could see better ways of doing things and were given the chance to try them out.

Though some things seem to have escaped their attention. The subway system is still run-down and exasperatingly slow. It took me a good hour to get from O'Hare Airport to the city centre, a journey of about 12 miles. And naturally I had to contend with the customary lunatic screaming inanely about black bitches.

But one thing they do well is local history. The Chicago History Museum in Lincoln Park is a mine of information on how the city began, how it developed, the disasters it had to cope with (like the Great Fire of 1871 that destroyed 17000 buildings), and how it has constantly reinvented itself.

Its citizens certainly seem proud of their adventurous and exuberant city.

Sex trap

Can you imagine what it's like to be lured to Britain with the promise of a lucrative job, only to find yourself in thrall to a pimp who forces you to have sex with 15 men a day and pays you nothing at all?

And if you even think of running away, he'll threaten to kill your family, beat you and keep you permanently locked up?

Police say the number of women trapped like this is nearly five times more than previously thought - anything between six and eighteen thousand.

They could be working next door to you in an ordinary suburban house that's been taken over by gangsters and filled with coerced women.

While they're paid nothing for their humiliating labours, their owners bank colossal sums from what is now one of the highest-earning crime rackets in the world.

Operation Pentameter 2, run by police forces across the UK, has just finished its biggest ever crackdown, releasing 154 women and 13 girls, arresting 528 suspected traffickers and closing 822 brothels and other premises.

Most of the women are foreign but British women are also being lured away from their home towns and put to work hundreds of miles away.

It seems there's an endless supply of men keen to prove their masculinity by having sex with a complete stranger in the most squalid conditions, no doubt well aware of the misery behind the scenes but only interested in satisfying their physical cravings.

And unfortunately there's also an endless supply of gullible women falling for enticing job offers that turn into something hideously different from what they were promised.
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Jenny and I have been invited to Veronica Trinket's sumptuous New York hideaway in the Hamptons. If the weather's good, we'll be on the yacht. If not, we'll be pampering ourselves in her private beauty salon. See you all soon. Behave yourselves while we're away. I'll be keeping an eye on you via Veronica's laptop!

Butt in or butt out?

After several horrific fatal stabbings in London, people are asking themselves what they would do if they saw something dreadful happening as they walked down the street.

What would I do? If I saw a man attacking a woman or threatening someone with a knife, if I saw a woman wrecking her ex's car or hitting her child, would I intervene or would I hurry past telling myself it was dangerous to interfere?

I've often seen mildly disturbing scenes like a man and woman screaming at each other or a woman swearing at her little boy, but I've never seen anything so violent or sickening that I've thought seriously of trying to stop it and protect the victim.

It's hard to predict what I would do if I suddenly found myself in that situation. I like to think I would do the altruistic thing and intervene but I might simply be too scared to act. Especially if the attacker looked really vicious or was brandishing a weapon.

I do remember though an occasion many years ago when Jenny and I were in a London supermarket and saw the manager knock to the ground a frail elderly man who was walking out with a stolen packet of cheese.

We were so disgusted we complained heatedly to the cashier and abandoned the basket of groceries we had been about to buy. Afterwards we both felt very public-spirited and glad we had made our anger known.

But when I hear about people who've tried to stop some act of violence, and ended up seriously injured or even dead, it does make me think twice about being a Good Samaritan. When it came to it, would I just cut and run?

Fatal vanity

The tragic consequences of unnecessary plastic surgery have been shown yet again with the death of a 33 year old Dublin man who was afraid his wife would leave him for a better-looking man.

After extensive cosmetic surgery in Colombia, which his 23 year old wife begged him not to have, he died of a heart attack. She said she had lost “the most beautiful thing” in her life, and had been left to look after a new baby.

But Pierre Lawlor was convinced he was "fat and ugly and had big ears" and was terrified his young Venezuelan wife Andrea would leave him for one of his friends. So he arranged for liposuction plus work on his eyes, cheekbones, nose and neck.

The surgery proved disastrous and the Dublin coroner concluded that the physical strain of the lengthy procedures had led to a cardiac arrest.

Andrea had told him he was "foolish" to get the surgery. "I didn't think he needed it," she said. "He was paranoid all the time about his looks and getting old and what people would think when they see us together."

The huge risks of plastic surgery, even for fit and healthy people, are constantly trivialised but are very real. It’s crazy to embark on it if it’s purely for reasons of vanity and insecurity.

Even if he thought he was not too attractive and was maybe disappointing his wife, he should have accepted the risk of her going off with someone else rather than having himself ‘improved’. Who knows, she might not have liked the so-called ‘improvements’ anyway. We all know how false and unnatural such surgery can make people look.

It seems he had the same problem of distorted body image that many women have. He was convinced he was ugly even though his wife denied it, and he just refused to listen to her. What he really needed wasn’t surgery but some serious counselling on his abnormal view of himself.

No regrets

Some people are weighed down with regrets about their life. They shouldn't have done this or that, they should have had a different job, a different man, a different personality.

But I can honestly say I've never regretted anything in my life. It's taken strange twists and turns, some fortunate and some less fortunate, some happy and some miserable, but all in all my life has turned out well and I can't recall anything so disastrous I would want to rewrite it.

It must be heartbreaking to have serious regrets, to believe that some fatal decision you made decades ago has ruined your life, and to wish fervently that you could go back and do something quite different.

It amuses me sometimes to imagine parallel scenarios, how my life might have turned out if I'd made other choices or been another sort of person. Suppose I'd been a woman, or been more self-confident or gregarious or virile or gifted.

Yes, my life would have been rearranged. But I'm not convinced it would have been more rewarding or more enjoyable. The grass is not always greener on the other side.

Maybe I'm just very lucky. I've never known anything so catastrophic that I've desperately wanted to undo it. I've never caused anyone's death. I've never lost a child. I've never been tortured or raped. Whatever's happened to me has always been reversible or repairable.

Like anyone else, I've had plenty of negative experiences. I've been jilted, betrayed, ostracised, humiliated. But I've always bounced back, always learnt something, always moved forward to new joys and new achievements. So what's to regret?

It's only a kiss

No apologies for returning to a gay theme, since this is just as extraordinary as the Iris Robinson outburst. An ad for mayonnaise has been withdrawn because it shows two men kissing. Shock horror outrage!!

The food company Heinz made an ad in which a man is leaving the house with a sandwich, saying goodbye not to the usual devoted wife but to a second man in a chef's hat and apron.

The two men kiss and the "chef" says "Love you. Come straight home from work, sweet cheeks."

After this sinful scene brought over 200 complaints, in what some say was an organised campaign, Heinz pulled the ad saying it had "failed in its intent to amuse" and apologising if they had offended anyone.

I'm glad to know the gay rights group Stonewall has responded to this cowardly ban by urging the public to stop buying Heinz products.

The group said "We're shocked that an innocuous ad should have been withdrawn in this way." They have had a flood of phone calls from deeply upset supporters.

It's ridiculous that in 2008 a company should wilt in panic and give way to a few hysterical loudmouths who still think same-sex kissing is scandalous and outrageous.

I wouldn't mind betting that these homophobic hotheads stay completely silent about anything genuinely offensive like mass rape by soldiers or the escalating reign of terror in Zimbabwe.

PS: It struck me that the basic message here - gay kisses bad, mayonnaise good - is upside down. The sane equation surely is gay kisses (happiness-promoting) good, mayonnaise (up to 85% fat) bad.

Rape as weapon

Mass rape as a deliberate tactic of war is something not often spoken about. But it happens in many countries and wrecks the lives of many thousands of women - and girls.

Military commanders know systematic rape can be more intimidating and destructive than conventional weapons. It terrorises whole communities, wiping out resistance and support for combatants.

It also attracts less attention because there is no pile of bodies and the victims are often too ashamed to say anything about it.

Up till now world leaders have done disgracefully little about it, treating it simply as a side-effect of war, as petty crime, or as typical male behaviour they can't control.

But the United Nations Security Council has now voted unanimously to classify rape as a weapon of war. And it is setting up an inquiry into how widespread it is and how to tackle it.

Attempts are being made to get the US Senate to take the issue seriously too. It needs to be recognised universally as a war crime and dealt with accordingly.

Military mass rape is common in African countries but has also occurred in Eastern Europe and the Middle East. The rape capital of the world is said to be eastern Congo, where in some areas three quarters of women have been raped.

It can do far more damage than weapons, producing rejected children, widespread disease, and individual and communal trauma. And the assailants avoid the potential death and injury of traditional warfare.

The victims are not even combatants but innocent civilians who may want nothing to do with local conflicts. They are simply pawns in a battle for power.

Now that world leaders are recognising this routine brutality, there is hope it can be reduced and with it the appalling human toll.

Thanks to Nicole for flagging this up on her own blog.

Photo: Anti-rape protest in Liberia, West Africa. The message reads: "Do not give in to fear, sadness and danger. Do not give up. Report violence cases"

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I start a new job on Tuesday - at another charity which I'd better not identify. So posting and commenting may be a bit erratic until I've got the new routine sorted out. But I'll be visiting you all just as often as I can!

Living with danger

I'm always humbled by people whose partners have incredibly risky jobs or hobbies but somehow have the resilience to accept the risk without being permanently worried stiff about them.

If your loved one is a police officer, firefighter, racing driver or rock-climber, you can never be sure they're going to return home in one piece - or even alive.

You must be often wondering how you would cope if you had that awful knock on the door to bring you the worst possible news. Or do you eventually get quite philosophical about it and just think "If it happens, it happens"?

Some people must face the prospect of their new love being constantly in danger and decide they simply can't face it, they'll settle for someone whose only occupational risk is a scalding from the coffee machine.

Two Northern Ireland motorcycling champions, brothers Joey and Robert Dunlop, were both killed while racing, and their grieving relatives have had to accept that they died doing something they loved and just wouldn't have been so happy doing something else.

Some people argue that it's irresponsible to choose such dangerous activities when you have a family who love you and depend on you and will be devastated if you come to harm. But if that's what you enjoy, if you're good at it, if it enriches your life, should you back off solely to be risk-free? And end up a bored, frustrated pen-pusher?

If you're the one at home though, it must be quite a relief every time your partner rings to say "I'm on my way now, sweetheart. How have the kids been today?" And for a few blissful hours, you can relax and stop worrying.

Political maverick

As you know, I'm pretty cynical about politicians, so I'm amazed and impressed that a leading English politician is taking a stand of high principle on the erosion of civil liberties.

After the Labour government won (just!) agreement to a possible detention period of 42 days for suspected terrorists, Conservative MP David Davis said he would resign and fight a by-election* on the issue.

Because he believes so strongly that the 42 days provision is draconian, and because he thinks the government is steadily undermining civil liberties in one area after another, he is going to ask the voters to re-endorse him and his stand for basic freedoms.

Naturally the Labour Party have poured scorn on him. So have the Conservatives. But the general public are right behind him, by a big majority.

He has been scathing not only about the detention increase, but the huge number of CCTV cameras, the new ID card project, restrictions on public protests, attempts to reduce jury trials and mislaid confidential personal data.

He will no doubt raise all these issues at length during his by-election campaign.

When so many politicians toe the line and do what they're told to do, usually lying outrageously in the process, it's refreshing when one of them sticks his neck out to emphasise his deeply-held convictions.

I don't often support a Tory, but his tactic is inspired.

PS: An example of the misuse of terrorist laws. Three pensioners joining a demonstration at Heathrow Airport on May 31 were questioned and escorted from the airport by police for wearing T-shirts that read "Stop Airport Expansion". Police took their names, addresses and descriptions and followed them out, warning they would be arrested if they returned within 24 hours.

* When a seat becomes vacant through death or resignation, there is a by-election to elect a new MP.

Jenny has a very different opinion on David Davis. She believes his typically Tory views on other subjects make him unworthy of support.

I see no sickness

We all know men have shorter lifespans than women. But why? One reason is that men put off going to the doctor if they have an unusual physical symptom.

They often don't like to admit to weakness, or to needing help, so they ignore the symptom and hope it'll go away. A bit of blood? A strange lump? Probably nothing to worry about.

Frequently it's a woman who pesters the man to seek medical advice and tells him he should take his health seriously.

Dr Marianne Legato, author of "Why Men Die First", says men are told from an early age not to make a fuss but just "suck it up" and get on with life.

Her father died of cancer, partly because he ignored blood-tinged urine for two years before asking questions. Her son is now seriously ill, having delayed getting medical help.

Men are more prone to just about every major, life-threatening illness than women. So they should be more concerned about their health, not less.

My father had a stroke at 55, because he was unaware he had soaring blood pressure and had never thought of getting it checked. Many men still have no idea their blood pressure is way too high.

If I had a serious-looking symptom like blood in my pee or crippling headaches, I would be off to see Dr Julie like a shot. I certainly wouldn't assume it would magically go away and take no notice of it.

Why do men still think it's embarrassing to ask for help? Why do they risk not only dying but leaving grief-stricken partners and children? It's not just stubborn but irresponsible. Wise up, guys, and stop being a slave to masculine "toughness".

Gay cure

You'd think people would have got the message by now that homosexuality is not a disease to be cured but a sexual preference to be enjoyed.

But Northern Ireland Assembly member Iris Robinson* begs to differ. She thinks that with professional help gays can be "turned around" and steered away from "what they are engaged in".

She claims to know a number of people who have changed course and become heterosexuals.

Well, that would be news to many gays who know their preference is just what they are and isn't something that can be changed at will like a set of clothes.

If someone has "become" heterosexual the chances are that's what they were all along and they weren't gay in the first place.

But Mrs Robinson holds stubbornly to the idea that homosexuals have somehow drifted into a thoroughly unsatisfying activity and just need to be shown the error of their ways. With the help of the Good Lord of course.

Her attitude was discredited sometime in the 1950s when gays began to resist the conventional psychiatric dogma that homosexuality was a medical disorder and a mental illness.

Clearly the cultural change of heart has passed Iris by. She only listens to a higher, other-worldly source she regards as more reliable.

David McCartney from Northern Ireland's Rainbow Project says there is no evidence to support gays being "converted" and he was seeking a meeting with Mrs Robinson.

I somehow don't think he'll change her mind. Her opinions are not affected by such mundane considerations as everyday reality.

* Wife of Northern Ireland First Minister Peter Robinson. Represents Ian Paisley's Democratic Unionist Party.

Responses so far

Her remarks have been referred to the police as incitement to hatred by Andrew Muir, gay activist and member of the Alliance Party, and John O'Doherty of the South Belfast District Policing Partnership. The Police Service of Northern Ireland (PSNI) has confirmed it is launching an investigation.

On Tuesday evening Martin McGuinness, Deputy First Minister, said her remarks were "harmful and distressing" to gay people and she should reflect on the impact her comments were having on the gay community.

The Northern Ireland Assembly's Commissioner for Standards has been urged to investigate her comments.

Stephen Scott, who was recently attacked by three gay-bashers, has called her remarks disgusting and said she should resign.

Robert Toner, a gay Belfast man, is planning legal action against Mrs Robinson under the Public Order Act and has asked the Equality Commission to support him.

The online petition to the British Prime Minister protesting at her anti-gay remarks has now closed with 15,670 signatures (Aug 10).

See also: Jenny's take on the Mrs Robinson affair

Drink problem

Regular readers will know I'm baffled by people who habitually drink huge quantities of alcohol and habitually get appalling hangovers. Where's the attraction, I ask myself. Why is ten pints better than half a pint?

Keen drinkers on the other hand are equally baffled by me. Why is Nick such an abstemious tight-arse? Doesn't he know how to let his hair down and enjoy himself? Doesn't he want to lose his inhibitions and anxieties for a while?

I don't think the two factions will ever understand each other. Especially here in Ireland, where heavy drinking is regarded as absolutely normal and (13%) proof you're a paid-up member of the human race.

Alcohol comes to mind as I watch with interest England's latest attempts to curb the huge social, medical and financial costs of binge-drinking.

Boris Johnson, the new Mayor of London, has banned alcohol on the entire London Transport network. The British government has announced that young children found drunk by police will be ordered into rehab and teenagers frequently caught with alcohol will be given ASBOs (Anti-Social Behaviour Orders) imposing curfews and alcohol bans. Parents may be sent on parenting courses and may be prosecuted if their children are still misbehaving.

Well, these measures are a well-meaning response to an increasingly ugly problem, but they don't tackle the root cause of alcohol mayhem. Which is the increasing belief that a night out can't be properly enjoyed without a tsunami of alcohol, plenty of broken glass, pools of vomit and a mangled brain.

Somebody explain to me why a few like-minded people with sharp brains, a crazy sense of humour and some juicy gossip aren't more than enough for an entertaining evening, with or without fermented grapes.

Trust

Friendship and trust are so closely linked. If you find it hard to trust people, it's going to be hard to make friends.

You have to believe the other person's basically good-natured and caring, that they'll treat you decently and won't hurt you or betray you. If you've had a lot of bad experiences with people and that confidence has been undermined, making friends becomes harder.

My trust in people was badly damaged as a child. I had a belligerent, cantankerous father who constantly criticised me and seldom encouraged me. Later I was sent to a boarding school where I was regularly bullied and made to feel I didn't fit in and was somehow odd.

By my late teens I had lost much of my trust in people and I no longer assumed they would treat me well. They had to do a lot to convince me they were well-meaning and not going to belittle me or look down on me. The slightest sign of condescension and I would withdraw. Opening up and being myself no longer came naturally.

You might think such distrust would gradually disappear, that I would meet people who would restore my trust and I could start to make normal friendships like anyone else. But that never really happened and my distrust stubbornly lingered. Occasionally I meet people so transparently warm-hearted my suspicions melt for a while, but sooner or later they return.

The fact is I've never fully revealed myself to anyone except Jenny. Large parts of me are forever hidden, like the dark side of the moon. And it's too late now to expect any radical change.

Unfortunately there are plenty of parents and schools out there still damaging children's sense of trust without realising the long-term consequences - possibly an entire lifetime of struggling to make the sort of relationships that luckier people just take for granted. We need to take the emotional well-being of children a lot more seriously.

Unsung heroines (3)

When Salome Mbugua first arrived in southern Ireland in 1994 from Africa, she got a friendly welcome as black people were rare. But when she came back four years later people were more hostile.

There were a lot more immigrants and she was told "Go home, nigger." She met other black women who were meeting similar prejudice and having trouble finding suitable jobs.

With the support of Sisters of Mercy, a Catholic religious order, she set up AkiDwa, the African Women's Network, to provide support for black women and find out what their needs were.

Now the network, which expanded to help other women arriving from countries like Iraq, Afghanistan and Romania, has 2075 members and five permanent groups and is transforming the lives of previously marginalised newcomers.

They have had problems with racism, vandalism, domestic violence and even people saying they shouldn't have children. Around 60 per cent of them have had to take jobs that didn't match their skills. Overseas qualifications were often not recognised in the Republic.

AkiDwa advises them on how to improve their employment prospects and how to deal with discrimination, domestic violence and other problems that are holding them back.

Salome, a qualified social worker with a Master's degree from University College Dublin, originally wanted to work with the United Nations but now says she is too passionate about her work with AkiDwa to consider anything else. It has become her big mission and has been a much needed lifeline for thousands of vulnerable and victimised women.

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NB: I can't give a link to the recent Irish Times article as it's subscription-only. But here's another piece from the Irish Independent.

See also: Unsung heroines 1: Gareth Peirce

Unsung heroines 2: Camila Batmanghelidjh

Naked fury

How would you feel if your ex-lover had taken photos of you naked (or worse) and was holding onto the photos against your wishes? Or even circulating them to other people or putting them on the net?

This was the query on a newspaper problem page this week. An embarrassed woman wants her ex to return or delete the photos but he's refusing. Or rather, he's saying "Come and get them" and she's nervous about what will happen if she does.

It's not unusual these days for lovers to take intimate photos of each other - particularly when it's so easy with a digital camera. And such photos have often been sent into cyberspace, particularly if the ex feels bitter and wants some sort of malicious revenge.

Personally, I wouldn't be too bothered by my naked body gracing the net. As if anyone would want to see such an unpromising physique anyway. But I would be furious if it was accompanied by belittling and snide comments from someone out to stick the knife in.

Mind you, I wonder why people take nude pics of each other anyway. It's hardly necessary if you see your bedmate every day. What are you recording it all for?

You'r hardly going to stick them in the photo album to show your parents. "And this is Tracy in the buff. Look at those knockers, eh?" You're hardly going to line them up with the family snaps on your office desk. So what's the point? My mind wanders to frankly obscene and scurrilous motives....

And now I'm wondering what photos Jenny's been taking of me while I've been naked and fast asleep. I'd better take a closer look at that camera she's been so furtive about....

Distant memories

If there's one part of my body I'd like to improve, it's not my nose or biceps or bum, it's my dreadful memory - and the constant embarrassment it causes.

My father had a photographic memory, he could recall every detail of something that happened twenty years ago (quite mortifying when I desperately wanted him to forget some reckless or nasty action of mine). But I'm the exact opposite - if you asked me about a conversation I had last week, it would already be a hazy blur.

So I'm constantly forgetting people's names and jobs, whether they have children, where they live, that problem they asked me about a few days back, that difficult medical condition. I'm surprised I manage to retain all the thousand and one vital details of my own life, like bank accounts and holiday bookings.

It's not just early senility. I've always had a bad memory, even as a child. My mum would reel off all the little incidents from a seaside outing, and all that came to me was a vague image of sun, sea and sand.

So I rely heavily on bits of paper as memory back-up. Lists of Things To Do, notes of important conversations, downloaded news stories and reports, Notes To Self left in strategic places, and Questions To Ask when I talk to the doctor or podiatrist.

Which sounds pathetically gormless, but it's better than being totally flummoxed when Jenny asks me how much our hotel room's going to cost, if it has a bath or shower, and if it's air-conditioned. If I didn't have a Note, the details would have fluttered away like autumn leaves.

I really admire people with jobs that call for a prodigious memory - actors, singers, doctors, pilots. I'm always amazed that they can instantly recall exactly what they need so effortlessly.

I can just imagine the scene if I were a doctor. "That's a nasty-looking lump, Mrs O'Reilly. It could be a symptom of er, let me think for a few seconds. Would you like a cup of tea while we're waiting?" (That is, if I could remember how to boil the kettle)

I don't think Mrs O'Reilly would be long for this world.
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We all love bananas, don't we, boys and girls? Well, I read that we won't be enjoying them much longer, as they're being rapidly killed off by a lethal fungus - Panama Disease.

In five to thirty years' time, that delicious creamy taste could be a thing of the past. There are disease-resistant bananas that could be grown instead but they have a completely different taste - like lemons or apples. Perhaps we could readjust our taste buds?