Weakness of willpower has always steered me clear of New Year resolutions and self-denial during Lent.

What would be the use when I know the best of intentions would lie in ruins within 24 hours?

So on Shrove Tuesday, there was sympathy for the three uniformed sixth-formers waiting in Oxford bus station and discussing what they intended to resist over the next 40 days.

The first - a tall, elegant miss - said she was determined to cut down on spending. She was a self-confessed spendthrift.

According to her father, who constantly gave advances on her monthly allowance, she had inherited this from her mother, whose credit card debt would feed a Third World country for a fortnight. The girl was already part way through her April cash.

"I'm stopping smoking," said the gangling, serious-faced boy of the trio. "I don't enjoy it all that much. I only started in the summer holidays. It hardly counts as serious self-denial, but it will please mum."

The second girl, red-haired and the picture of good health, intended to forego meat in all its forms. However, she couldn't start until a week on Sunday. She was going to dinner at the poshest restaurant in the county on February 16 and had no intention of pushing vegetables around her plate while the rest were sorting out succulent steaks.

"But what about the 40 days of self-denial?" asked the would-be non-smoker. "Lent begins tomorrow. It isn't negotiable."

"You're such a goody-goody and boring with it, Robert," she replied. "Easter is a moveable feast - so is Lent. Ive just moved it a bit more. What's wrong with that?"


  • Amanda speaking. How can I help?" This common, pseudo-chummy way of answering business calls is not my cuppa. You can bet that if you have to ring back, there are at least three girls on the staff called Amanda (or whatever) and you spend ages, at premium rates, waiting while they try to find her, only to learn she's on a day off.

Still, all is not gloom.

Last week, I called the gas supplier. The voice at the far end was sensuous and gentle - the Indian sub-continent oozing from every syllable.

After confirming I was on to the right department, the young woman said: "My name is -----. May I help?"

I had never before heard the name. It sounded more like a romantic sentence than a single word, conjuring up limpid, water lily-covered pools, exotic flowers and fragrances, and eastern music. Trying to write it down would have been beyond me without asking for several re-runs, let alone hoping to repeat it should another call prove necessary. Not wishing to be ungallant or admitting ignorance, I moved the inquiry along.

At length, she asked: "Could I have your name, please? Your first name."

"Peter," I replied truthfully.

"How is that spelt?"

She needed three stabs at that five-letter word before getting the hang of it. When she came to the surname - Oh Lord!

A giggle couldn't be stifled. I apologised, explaining the reason for my unintentional discourtesy.

"Don't worry. Call me Pat - everyone does," she offered cheerfully.

So Pat it was - although I wondered how many more Pats worked in the office.


  • Did you notice that with all the understandable sentiment surrounding the 50th anniversary of the Manchester United air crash, another anniversary falling on that day was consigned to the pages with even numbers?

It was the 56th anniversary of the accession of the Queen, 56 years since she - only a couple of years older than some and younger than others of those lads who died - was woken from her bed in a tree house in Kenya and told her dad had died and that things would never be the same again for her, her husband and two young children.

And 56 years down the line, she is still doing a wonderful job. Thanks, Ma'am.