Dear Jeff
, I typed smartly, my fingers stabbing at the keys with distaste.
All sexual activity with other species is illegal. I agree wholeheartedly with your wife. Interfering with animals is, moreover, an abuse of their rights
—
I suggest you stick to eating them instead
!
I have my principles you see. Agony aunts tend to be liberal, but we all have certain bees in our bonnets. Mine are Zoophilia (gross), smacking (unacceptable), and infidelity (absolutely ditto). The number of women who write to me asking how they can persuade their married boyfriend to leave his wife! Take this letter here for example. Typical.
Dear Rose, Please could you advise me what to give my lover for his birthday? I'd like to give him something personal rather than aftershave or a tie which his wife might spot
.
Dear Sharon
, I typed energetically.
Thank you very much for your letter. I know the perfect birthday present for your married boyfriend
—
may I suggest that you give him the boot
!
I mean, what do these women seriously expect me to say? Sleeping with someone else's husband is the pits. Why can't they find themselves a single man—God knows there are enough out there. And now I mentally pushed Mary-Claire Grey off the top of Tower Bridge before ploughing through the rest of the mail.
I get, on average, a hundred and fifty letters a week. I type half the replies then record the rest on a dictaphone and give Serena the tape. She also leaflet-stuffs the envelopes, shreds the old letters—
so
important—and organises the helplines which appear on the page. We ring the changes with these but we usually have five or six on the go.
Fighting Phobias
is a popular one, as is
He Wants Me To Dress
Up. We also have helplines on
Prostate Problems, Impotence
and
Bad Breath
. Obviously we have to be careful not to mix up the phone numbers alongside each one.
Dear Rose
, I now read.
I am f**g pissed off because yesterday I phoned your f**g Hair Loss helpline and got Haemorrhoids instead! Those lines cost a pound a minute so I wasn't f**g impressed
.
I wrote back enclosing a conciliatory fiver and my leaflet on
Self-Control
. And now I tackled my e-mails which account for about a quarter of my mail. I find e-mails much harder to analyse than letters. There's no handwriting with all its tell-tale signs and the language is cold and concise. You can see the problem itself very clearly, but not the person who's having it. Because the main thing about the problem page is that the letters are often not quite what they seem. You have to work them out, spot the clues—like a crime novel—or deconstruct them like a piece of prac. crit. For example, someone might spend sixteen pages whining on about how they're not getting on with their partner any more and how he's always shouting at them and picking fights, blah blah
blah
. But then they'll add, in the very last line, 'but he's only like this when he drinks. ' At which point I am frantically digging out my
Alcohol
leaflet and the number of their local AA. And that's the
real
skill of being an agony aunt—you have to read between the lines.
At parties people often ask me what other qualities are required. Curiosity for starters—I've got that in spades. I've always loved sitting on trains, staring dreamily out of the window into the backs of people's houses, and wondering about their lives. You have to be compassionate too—but not wet—your reply should have a strong spine. There's no point just offering sympathy, or even worse, pity, like that
dreadful
Citronella Pratt. What the reader needs is practical advice. So that means having information at the ready: information and kindness—that's what it's about. Having said which I'm not a 'cuddly', 'mumsy' agony aunt—if need be I'll take a tough tone. But the truth is that my readers invariably know what to do, I simply help them find the answer by themselves. Take this letter, here, for example. What a nightmare. Poor bloke.
Dear Rose, in 1996 my adored wife died in a car crash, leaving me distraught. Three years later I met someone else and, after a short courtship (too short I now realise), I married again. Although I don't claim to be a saint, I believe I have treated my second wife well. She is a pleasant-looking, but unfortunately rather aggressive woman in her mid forties
—
she broke my finger very badly last year. I can just about put up with her mood swings, what I can't put up with is her affairs. I know that she's had at least two during our marriage, and now have evidence that she's on her third. And please don't tell me to get marriage guidance counselling because she flatly refuses to go. All I know is that I'm miserable: I feel so lonely and I don't sleep well. I often fantasize about being free (we don't have children). What do you think I should do
?
Dear John
, I typed.
Thank you for writing to me and I'm sorry you've been having such a hard time. I know from my own experience that infidelity is unacceptable
—
it's
humiliating, it's corrosive and it hurts. Any kind of physical aggression from your partner is also beyond the pale. You've already been forgiving twice, so maybe it's time to say 'no more'. John, only you know if your marriage can go on, but it does sound as though you might be at the end of the road
. Then, because I always try to add some kind words, I added:
You're obviously a very nice man, and I hope you find the happiness you deserve
. Now, I don't really know whether he's nice or not because we've never met, but because he's placed his trust in me I want to lift his morale a bit. Note that I didn't actually tell him to start proceedings; that's something I never do. In any case it's pretty obvious that he's coming round to that idea himself. What he was doing—and I often get this—was seeking permission to go ahead. Basically, he was asking me to sanction his decision to divorce and so, indirectly, I did.
Then there are all the sad letters—some so dreadful it breaks your heart. Letters with cheerful smileys all over them from children whose parents drink. Letters which start,
I'm so sorry to bother you with my problems, but I have cancer, and have three months to live
… Occasionally, there are the begging letters—like this one. I read it and sighed.
Dear Rose, My three-year-old daughter Daisy needs a heart and lung transplant
—
she's been desperately ill since the day she was born. The doctors here say she's inoperable, but we've just found a surgeon in the States. But the cost of the operation is twelve thousand pounds
—
money we just don't have. Please, please, Rose, would you print this letter, as we're sure you have many kind-hearted readers who'd help
?
I heaved a sigh. I couldn't print it because that's not the function of my page and in any case it might not be true. But if it
were
true I couldn't forgive myself for not having taken it seriously. So I wrote back enclosing the numbers for five children's medical charities, and a cheque for seventy-five pounds. Ed used to get really cross when I did that so I stopped telling him after a while.
And now I read a letter from one of my many Lonely Young Men.
Dear Rose, My problem is that I'm 35 and have never had a girlfriend. Girls just don't seem interested in me, probably because I'm very shy with them, and I'm not at all good looking.
. . I glanced at the enclosed photo—typical! He was very attractive…
so I've been feeling very depressed lately and I spend every evening at home, on my own. But I would love to get to know a special lady who would be kind to me, and perhaps even love me. Please, please, Rose, can you help
?
Dear Colin
, I wrote.
Thank you very much for your letter and I'm sorry that you're feeling so low. But let me assure you that you are a very handsome young man and I'm sure lots of girls would like to go out with you. But the point is you have to make a real effort to meet them
—
sitting at home's no good! I think you should a) do an assertiveness course to help build your confidence and b) join an evening class (not car maintenance) where I'm sure you would soon make some female friends. I enclose my Confidence leaflet and the number for your local community college, and I wish you really good luck
. I felt so sorry for him that, on the spur of the moment I added:
PS. If you feel you'd like to, do let me know how you get on
. But as I sealed the envelope I realised that this was unlikely, and that's the weird thing about what I do. Every month over a thousand total strangers tell me about their problems and their intimate affairs. I give them the very best advice I can, but I rarely, if ever, hear back. My replies go out into the void like meteorites hurtling through space. Did what I write help them, I sometimes wonder? Are things going better for them now?
I was suddenly aware that our new editor, Ricky Soul, ex-
News of the World
, was standing by my desk. R. Soul—as he's respectfully known—has been brought in by the Amalgamated lowerarchy to try and jack up our sales.
'How's it going in the Agony and Misery Department?' he asked with a smirk.
'Oh, fine, ' I replied casually. 'Fine. ' As he hovered beside me I made a mental note to leave a copy of my
Personal Freshness
leaflet on his desk. Then he reached for my letters—in total breach of confidentiality!—so I quickly swept them into a drawer.
'Anything spicy you can lead with on Wednesday, Rose?'
'Like what?' I enquired innocently though I knew.
'Like "Dear Rose, '" he said in a lisping falsetto, '"I am a nineteen-year-old glamour model with a huge bust and long blonde hair and my boyfriend likes me to dress up as a nurse. I'm tempted to tell him that I don't really enjoy it but am worried that he'll feel hurt". '
I groaned. Our old editor, Mike, who was sacked last month, used to leave me alone; but ever since Ricky arrived I've been under pressure to put in more sex.
'Got any problems like that?' he enquired with a leer.
'No, I'm afraid not, ' I replied. 'However I have an accountant who likes to wear silk knickers under his pin-stripes; a farmer who wants to commit pigamy and I've had a letter from a fifty-five-year-old nun who'd like to become a man. '
'I said spicy, Rose—not pervy, ' said Ricky pulling a face. 'And not too many woofters, okay?'
'Ricky, kindly don't trivialise my readers' problems. My column isn't entertainment. '
'Of
course
it is, ' he guffawed, 'that's
exactly
what it is: other people's problems give us all a lovely warm glow. ' I suppressed the urge to club him to death with
Secrets of Anger Control
.
'I've also had this, ' I said, handing him the letter about the sick child. He scanned the paper and his face lit up.
'Great!' he beamed. 'A Tragic Tot! We'll run with it—if she's cute. '
As he sauntered away I turned back to my final letter with a frustrated sigh. It was from a girl whose fiance had just gone off with someone else.
Can't believe it
… she wrote,
wedding four weeks off… the shame and humiliation… can't eat, can't sleep… should I ring him?… suicide
…
'Poor kid, ' I said handing it to Serena. 'I'll make this one my lead. ' And, as I quickly drafted the reply, it was as though I were writing to myself.
Dear Kelly, Thank you very much for your letter: you've obviously had a terrible time. But your ex is clearly the WRONG man, otherwise he wouldn't have done what he did! So the sooner you're able to put this behind you the sooner you'll meet someone who's right. You've had a huge emotional shock, Kelly, so you need to he radical now. All those nice memories? Erase them! Remember your ex at his worst. Remember him picking his nose, for example, or clipping the hair from his ears. Remember him drunk and snoring, or correcting you in front of your friends. Do this often enough, and you'll find that pleasant thoughts of him will soon go. Do NOT remember the time he mixed you a Lemsip, or the time he played 'Only You' down the phone. Next, get rid of everything that reminds you of him
—'
vanish' him from your life. All the gifts he gave you
—
chuck them! And the photograph albums. Then tear up his letters
—
and the Valentine's cards. Flog the engagement ring and treat yourself to a week at a health farm with your best friend. Finally, post up the ugliest photo you have of him and draw a red circle round it with a line through. You ask me if you should contact him. NO, Kelly! Do NOT!!! And in the unlikely event that he should call you, then I suggest you tell him to get stuffed! Salvage your dignity, Kelly
—
it's so important
—
and just be angry instead. Those homicidal dreams you're having? Indulge them! Don't feel guilty
—
enjoy! Those sadistic little fantasies in which you pull out his nails
—
go right ahead. And if it helps why not simply pretend that your ex is dead? Kelly, you've clearly had a dreadful time, but I know that you're going to be fine. And remember that none of these things will work nearly as well as finding another
—
and much better
—
man
.
I breathed a cathartic sigh as I signed the letter. As I say, I sometimes take a tough tone. But if a man lets you down that badly then you have to kick him right out. And as I made my way home that evening I decided I'd follow my own advice. There were a few marital mementoes I hadn't had the heart to discard but now I resolved to throw them away. I took the wedding photo out of the drawer, together with our engagement announcement, and my dried bouquet. In a file I found the air tickets to Menorca and the wallets of honeymoon snaps. There was a particularly nice one of Ed, standing on the beach in the evening sun. I could have delivered a deranged monologue to it—I was tempted—but instead I put it, with the other things, in an old shoebox which, to my bitter amusement, came from 'Faith'. I tied the box tightly with string, pressed my foot on the pedal bin and prepared to let go.