I'm a fool to myself

Most Saturdays, I treat myself to the Daily Telegraph. I buy it for its prize general knowledge crossword, and my mum and I will exchange texts relating to African capitals and the moons of Saturn until we have both finished the puzzle. So far neither of us has secured the £200 prize - and between us we must have spent more than that on stamps, but that's not the point.

If I were able to keep my focus on the puzzle section, all would be well, but somehow I always end up reading the rest of the 'Weekend' section. It's not for folk like me. I choose my wine by price, not vineyard, I don't have the wherewithal to take a trip up the Amazon and find it hard to believe that a bronze sculpture of a 'scenting hound' is the perfect gift for anyone (a snip at £250!). Much of the content makes me cross, partly through envy, I'll confess, but mostly because it's all so - I don't know - pointless. I shouldn't read it, I know, but I do, even though it makes me grind my teeth.

This week, the paper surpassed itself, when it devoted 30 column inches plus pictures to the thorny topic of walking in stilettos. You can, apparently, attend a workshop on this crucial life skill for £20 - and if that's not enough, gents can pay £50 to learn how to escort women who wear such shoes. The article concludes: 'Once you can walk in high heels the world is your oyster.'

Good grief.

No stiletto heels in my wardrobe