If you want sex, have an affair. If you want a relationship, buy a dog.

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

I know that Brighton is famously a mixture of the seedy and the elegant, but in the summer of 2001 seediness swamped elegance hands down.

I'll declare my own interest right here at the start and admit that, like the vast majority of people, I find youthful looks appealing.

There's something brave and touching about game girls of all ages keeping themselves smart in hard times - one thinks of those wonderful women during World War II drawing stocking seams in eyebrow pencil up the back of legs stained with gravy browning because nylons were so hard to get hold of.

The money I pay for my cultural experiences came willingly from my own pocket - they were not the result of bread being removed from the mouths of the poor so that Miss Thing here could mince off to the circus smelling of roses.

Blakes Hotel in South Kensington was a particular favourite of mine during what I affectionately think of as my Restless Years.