Dear Aunt Marje...............

Philippa Perry is a psychotherapist and writer of the Observer’s problem page. In other words, she is an 'agony aunt'. Glancing at her column this week brought to mind that doyenne of the genre, Marjorie Proops and the 'Dear Aunt Marje' feature she had in the Daily Mirror for many years. I never had a problem I needed her advice on but now I think I do. If she were still around, I'd send her the following letter...................

 Dear Aunt Marje, 

I have a problem that I am too embarrassed to talk about. A problem which is causing me sleepless nights and is challenging the very foundations upon which my life has been built. It revolves around a fear which is almost too horrible to give voice to.

Over the years I have resigned myself to the fact that life is little more than a conveyor belt of worries. If I close my eyes I can conjure most of them up right now, like a contestant on some devilish Generation Game for obsessive worriers : my hair is falling out, I will get fatter and fatter until I burst, my computer will get a terminal virus, I have arrived at the airport check-in without my passport. I have forgotten to revise for an important examiantion. But the latest worry overshadows such trivial cares. You see, Aunt Marje, I think I am becoming a conservative. 

If you are still there and haven't run away in shock and disgust, let me immediately point out the lower case "c" in the last sentence. But - and this is an even more terrifying thought - where the lower case goes, surely the upper case can't be too far behind. Evidence, I hear you shouting, what evidence do I have of this alarming trend? Maybe it is just one of those twisted fantasies like imagining that you have out-of-control eyebrows. Well, there is evidence a-plenty, Aunt Marje, evidence enough to satisfy a chamber full of judges. You see, I have become a creature of habit who dislikes change. 

There, I have said it. The truth is out. I have become aware of this new me only recently. I get grumpy when my routine is disturbed. The other day when I was enjoying our weekly Group walk I became furious when I discovered that workmen had blocked off part of the path we normally follow. It necessitated a detour of about 17 yards. I spent the rest of the walk fulminating and composing a letter to the Editor of The Times. And that was on top of the discovery that very morning that the usual Guardian i-version had not appeared in a downloadable form on their website. Disgusted of Downgate penned another e-mail to the Guardian editor expressing the outrage I felt at having my ordered life disorganised. I mean, Aunt Marje, what is the world coming to? Today it is missing online Guardians or dug-up paths and tomorrow it will be who knows what? Why can't people just leave my little world alone. I am a rock, I am an island. It wasn't like this when I was young. What is the world coming to. ...... Dear Aunt Marje, I think I need your sage advice.

Respectfully yours,

Disgusted of Downgate