IN the early 1980s, the Canadian writer Margaret Atwood wrote about why men fear women — they fear that women may laugh at them — and why women fear men — they fear that men may kill them. And Germaine Greer famously wrote how few women have little idea of the extent many men hate them. Nah, you might think. Surely not.

IT used to be that when couples went on holiday together, they would realise after a fortnight of sitting side-by-side by the pool reading their John Grishams and eating hotel buffet ‘fayre’ that actually they didn’t have a whole lot to say to each other.

THE trainer, a lovely curvy woman in tight lycra whom I have expressly picked out from a line up in the gym, because she looks normal rather than someone who exists on egg white omelette and kale, assumes I have engaged her because I want to be thinner.

I THINK I may have found a new source of renewable energy not previously explored to its fullest. Were I not feeling so insanely irritable I would sit down and tell you all about it in a nice calm manner, with relaxed body language and an easy smile. However, given how cranky I am right now, I will instead explain my brainwave through gritted teeth.

AT a fund raiser in aid of a domestic abuse charity, in between performances from Alison Moyet, Tracy Thorn and Caitlin Moran, it was interesting to hear the experiences of a transgender woman who had used the services of the charity while fleeing not just the horrors of violence in the home, but violence against her from wider society – from catcalls to punches to ridicule, her transition had not been smooth.

IN order to write another book without the aid of an advance, and to raise expensive children without the aid of a co-parent, my household is stuffed with paying guests, and is starting to resemble a United Colours of Benetton advert. Except scruffier.

IT has always struck me as a bit unseemly when people in the same profession go for each other in print or online. So I never have.

I’m thinking of starting a blog called the Fat Vegan, except being a journalist, I can’t bear to write anything for free.

BEING a writer is a great way to live, but not such a great way of making a living. Unless you’re Jeffrey Archer or JK Rowling, forget it — you won’t ever be in the limited edition queue for a five-grand handbag.

I don't know what it’s like where you are, but it seems to be getting worse where I am. You can’t even put it down to April Fool, because it’s been going on for ages now, and growing all the time.