For some time - at least 25 years - yes at least - I've had the desire to delve deeper, to conjecture upon life and its deeper mysteries; asking the poignant, though rather obvious questions, who am I?  What is the meaning of life?  How many pairs of shoes is it reasonable to have? Etc etc.

Now let me say from the onset that Ido not set myself apart, there are, of course, numerous Macaronis who aspire likewise.  What do we share in common?  NO TIME TO DO SO !!!  Then there are the Emperors who appear quite happy in oblivion - 'I drive an Audi - therefore I am' - sussed, no worries.

As time goes by, much like an aging Amstrad, my files have become so copious and saturated with long since redundant information, that my RAM/ROM (whatever), has thrown in the towel.  In short they're full of crap, of the cerebral variety, mentally constipated. (Some would say I'm simply full of crap -  ok ok I take that on board).

I consider then that I have been afflicted with mental constipation for long enough and enrol onto 'Practical Philosophy'  (change your life in 10 weeks for £66....umm not bad....week one Wisdom.... oh dear....)

In my line of work I am often told I am a 'wise woman'.  This immediately brings to mind some toothless crone living in a swamp awaiting a visit from Blackadder. I think it's because I listen to people - a lot - that I am seen so.  Wise that is not a toothless crone.....?

So, Monday evening, after one hour and much deep and meaningful theorizing on whether one needs to be truthful to be wise, if truth is inexorably linked to wisdom, if one's truth gene is missing  are we destined to live a life void of enlightenment; one chap decides that we are all victims of social conditioning. That we need a fraction of what we have, and that we are trapped in a cycle of blind materialism; desire, possession and depression.  And it is this cyclical horror that renders the 'self' untrue.  Tralaa ! Of course. This HM skips from class, full of joy, anticipating the renaissance of her former self.

Tuesday.  Find myself in in an undercover operation attempting to get a LARGE box into a village Post Office without detection, bit like a Stealth Bomber in a pashmina. Box contains 'returns' to my dear friend Johnny (Boden).  Forgive me Mr Postmaster for I have sinned, a confessional through a perspex screen.

"At least I'm returning them all....well almost all".

"You women, you're all the same, stop feeling so guilty - live a little, we get a lot of Boden through here"

A large queue has formed by now.  With a cheery "see you next month then" I exit said place of postal confession, feeling justifiably proud of my sacrifice to the God of materialism, ( the 'returns' to dear Johnny), but am bought up short by the stark realization that the much coveted linen jacket, ( of course I NEED it....!!!) leaves my potenially wisdomed - up inner self floating in a sea of pus.  Bugger.