AGONY AUNT

I have a number of Sunday rituals. One is the purchase of the SUNDAY EXPRESS. I know, dear reader that you wouldn't have me down as a Sunday Express reader. You'd be right. I buy the paper and instantly throw it away. No. Correction. Not quite instantly. I check first as a sort of personal game that the words DI or MADDY are (as usual) on its front page, together with the latest accompanying non story. But I like the general knowledge crossword, which offers a thousand pound prize on completion. I don't really need the grand but I like the thought of winning it. Not that I ever have, mind. It's the plant genuses which get me, and the compiler is fond of them.

But you'll be pleased to know that this eccentric reading choice is balanced by the choice of OBSERVER and SUNDAY TIMES. Within the latter my very favourite bit is Mrs. Mills, the acerbic Agony Aunt. Being a coach can, at times be akin to being an agony aunt. It's a clue as to your own poor performance as a coach, when you feel that's what's happening.

The other week, in typically acid style, Mrs. Mills was peremptory about some loser who was droning on about their relationship difficulties. "If you can change it, do so," she advised. "If not, be happy with what you've got."

Universal advice.