We used to have a Sunday ritual where we'd board the first bus heading south from Edinburgh, regardless of its destination. It was important to get the right seats—front row/top deck, of course—as from there we could survey our options until a particular suburban street tickled our fancy to ding the bell and disembark. We'd then scavenge the streets like truffle pigs for life's small pleasures: cantankerous pubs with whisky discounts for OAPs; stretches of . . .

Do you live on your own? Then do you ever suffer from the Bridget Jones fear that you will "die alone, and be found three weeks later half-eaten by alsatians"? If your jaw is hitting the floor then clearly the thought has never even crossed your mind. Turn the page. This article is not aimed at you. If, however, you are going, "Omigod, I thought I was the only person who worried about that!" then perhaps you might like to set up a branch of the Neurotic Women's . . .