As a child, I wanted only two things - to be left alone to read my library books, and to get away from my provincial hometown and go to London to be a writer. And I always knew that when I got there, I wanted to make loads of money.

The freedom that women were supposed to have found in the Sixties largely boiled down to easy contraception and abortion; things to make life easier for men, in fact.

The latest twist on the pampering concept is spa parties, where a group of friends take over an entire spa.

Show me a frigid woman and, nine times out of ten, I'll show you a little man.

I don't really care what people tell children - when you believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, one more fib won't hurt. But I am infuriated by the growing notion, posited in some touchy-feely quarters, that all women are, or can be, beautiful.

When did women whose looks are not their living start conducting themselves like the simpering inmates of an Ottoman empire seraglio?

To believe that one, or even three, mates can supply all the things one needs from one's friends is as stupid as believing married couples must do everything together.