One should, of course, be open minded, give everything the mental once-over as it were.  It is therefore easy to debate that attending just two sessions of 'Practical Philosophy' was hardly giving it a 'fair crack of the whip'.  Failure again? Well hear me out, the main thrust of those two sessions was  (a) to be true to one's self, and (b) constantly to  pose the question 'What would a wise woman do?'

Sitting in session two, with the insidious feeling that something was not quite right, my body language must have looked a treat!  Clad in black, arms and legs firmly crossed and the obligatory polo neck pulled up just under the nose you would have to be a Platonist short of a Plato not to get it.  "No one's messing with my mind mate!"

Discussed this at length with a truly wise woman who put me onto an encyclopaedic website which was hugely informative and confirmed my thoughts - watch out for the mention of an initiation ceremony in week five.

So, with a screech of tyres, leaving my goat's head spinning in its plastic bag in the car park, this 'wise woman' got the hell out of there.  Two weeks in and cerebral constipation is cured by major reality enema.  Failed philosopher?  No way - even Plato didn't put in an appearance with this lot!!!  Wiser?? Oh yes, definitely wiser....

Decide then to stick with the 'Moonies' I'm comfortable (relatively) with.  So off to another session of ritual abuse with WW, (no offence they do a great job).

"Oh dear Mrs Pagan, things not too good this week? Let's see if we can't get you back on track. Many of our members find this works, its goat's head soup."

AAAAAAGHHHHHHH!!!!!!        

Go for a post traumatic (the effect of WW on me,) drink with friends and discover the newly cleaned cerebral slate was soon to decline into information overload meltdown. In the company of the 'three graces' Chardonnay, Chablis and Sauvignon Blanc, the evening soon turns to matters of the heart and ultimately the body..... sex.  Bugger – no, no, not literally.

Now my two friends are both gorgeous, intelligent and well travelled. I sadly, am none of these. I am also 'blessed' with having had an incredibly Victorian childhood, perfect if one's desire is for a career within the Mrs Beaton fan club or entry to a silent order somewhere.  So for this teenager there were no pictures of Slade or The Osmonds, just Isambard Kingdom Brunel. Anyway as the conversation continued I finally reached the very pinnacle of Victoriana.  My learned friends suggested that a "rabbit" would be the cure-all for all associated stresses of life. Hilarity ensued when I said I didn't like things kept in cages and it would only add to the stress factor as I would be the only one who cleaned it out............  This ranks right up there with a discussion over a pecan pie the other evening when, chatting as we were about all things feminine, my friend said she had a 'Hungarian'.

"God," I said, "does that mean you just let it grow and grow?"!

"No I have a Hungarian lady to do my Brazilian!  She does Kylie you know........"

Oh ...right. Bugger.

Ah well back to the drawing board.. no I think maybe the building blocks of life. The Earl and I sit and ponder whether it's not in fact too late for this HM.  Indeed am I rendered useless by my lack of knowledge regarding rabbits, Plato and Brazilians, and Hungarians for that matter? Is the meaning of life inextricably bound up in a sex toy and having your hair ripped out by a lady from Eastern Europe?

In the spirit of being true to one's self I shall simply add the above to the long line of inadequacies. Still, it's often better to travel than to arrive,  however the Earl and I concur...we're buggered.  Except the Earl's not actually, he's made millions in bergamot oil and tea.........Bugger.