Where The Lower Case Goes Can The Upper Be Far Behind

Dear Aunty Doris, 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. But the latest worry overshadows such trivial cares. You see, Aunty Doris, 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 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 nasal hair (don't you have such fantasies, oh well, it takes all types as they say in Todmorden). Well there is evidence a-plenty Aunty Doris, evidence enough to thrill 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 became aware of this new me on my recent holiday. Each evening after the show in the theatre, I would lead my companions on a headlong rush along the decks of the boat to secure our favourite table in our favourite bar. After everyone else had gone to bed I would head to another bar to enjoy a cigar, sitting at the same table every night drinking a glass of the same malt. Back home, I get grumpy when my routine is disturbed. The other day when Amy and I were enjoying our morning 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 composing a letter to the Telegraph. I had the time to compose the letter because that morning the usual Guardian Newsdesk podcast had not appeared in a downloadable form on their website. Furious of Fixby penned another e-mail to the Guardian editor expressing the outrage I felt at having my ordered life disorganised. I mean, Aunty Doris, what is the world coming to. Today it is missing podcasts or dug-up paths and tomorrow it is skinheads running their fraternity rings down the paintwork of your newly cleaned car. 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 Aunty Doris, do I need help.