I've just survived a fortnight of Fifty Shades of Grey. It involved a lot of lying in bed and horizontal passivity though not (what a life-saver !) velvet hand-cuffs or spanking.   

The National Cafe (est. 1928) was a dimly-lit narrow room with exhausted red carpeting, Formica tables and vinyl-upholstered chrome-legged chairs. A row of cylindrical glass lampshades dangled from the high ceiling, vinegar and Worcester sauce bottles stood in cruet sets on each table. The waiter was 89 years old. The menu offered steak and chips, egg and chips, sausages and chips, fish and chips and baked beans on toast. I ordered steak and chips.  

The Grim Reaper visited a male friend of mine the other day. Mr Reaper called by very unexpectedly at four a.m. and stayed just long enough to drop an anvil onto my friend’s chest before slipping silently away into the early morning darkness. 

I could feel myself teetering on the brink of the female equivalent of geezerhood or old codgerism: the compulsion to share with fresh-checked youth how things used to be “back in my day”. 

My do-it-yourself detox system is scientific, easy, cheap and you can do it at home. In fact once the detox is underway you must stay at home: it is essential that you have unimpeded access to a toilet.  

Apparently, something like 100,000 thoughts pass through the human mind each day. That’s a lot of through-traffic even if 90% of the thoughts are pedestrian in the extreme. Where’s my other sock? What’s the time? I’m dying for a cup of tea. Must put toothpaste on the shopping list. That kind of thing. Over and over and over.