Agony Aunt

A stranger has sought me out in the blogosphere hoping for advice on 'wearing my wife's shoes.' I'm quite happy to oblige. Wait, dear, until she's out shopping and have a trial run in the bedroom before flaunting them down at the Working Men's Club. You wouldn't want to make a fool of yourself - stilettoes, you see, can topple a man faster than a crate of Bishop's Finger.

I'm less confident that I can steer the surfer questing 'elderly man in his jockstrap'. I'll keep a look out, for sure, but, you know, with so many pensioners cruising the aisles of Asda in posing pouches you might need to narrow the search down a little.

When I began blogging nearly a year ago I was acutely aware that I had no wisdom to add to cyberspace. I love gardening, but the blogosphere is crowded with far more expert amateurs than me.  I'm pretty well schooled in consumer rights, but government websites have already done a thorough job on the Sale of Goods Act. I had no idea that the world would embrace me as an agony aunt.

When people want to discover more about 'dentil molding with post and lintel' or 'evil schoolgate mothers' where do they turn? To me! Google's search engine deems me an expert on 'middle-aged plumpness', 'wearing a raincoat with a quilted vest' and 'eustreptopondylus'. 

I confess that I am humbled by the confidences of strangers; by the glimpses of lives less fulfilled than my own privileged existence. An early post about the arrival of my two rescue kittens has, over the  months, prompted a heartwarming response from loners wishing to share their hearth with 'aged pussies'. And I sincerely hope, whoever you are, that you found your solution to 'middle age squirts on machine'. I would offer to experiment with the lawnmower, but the vicarage garden is so damnably overlooked. 

I'm less inclined to volunteer for 'matron shaving' until I know a little more about the process and purpose and I'm afraid I have no reliable expertise in 'mongering adventures'.

The surprise has been how great is worldwide zeal for matrons, a species I'd thought woefully neglected when I became one myself. Not that everyone's intentions are entirely kindly. 'Strict matron judicial caning' is no way to treat me. There's no grievance that can't be solved peacefully over a nice cup of tea. And it's a little hurtful that 'Japanese matron nipples' should be so especially sought after. But to the lady who asks 'Can I still study to be a matron at 50?': you can start any age, sweetheart and formal qualifications are unnecessary. All you need is a husband, alive or dead, and a couple of sturdy tweed skirts.

My influential knowledge of washing machines, sharks, Oreos and juggling has been well documented by Klout, yet parenting is the subject that brings many a lost soul to me. If you're the mother that wants to know if any of the rest of us w**k our sons, lady, you need specialised help and so, even more so, does your boy. Please don't visit again.

There are, regrettably, some questions that my four decades of life experience cannot answer. 'How to be a better mother' is the one that taxes my visitors most often. It just happens to be the one that I most frequently ask myself and to which I can offer myself no practical reply. Should any of you stumble upon the definitive answer, make sure I'm the first to know and in return I'll tell you all you were wanting to know about 'decomposing horse web template'.

Has blogging turned you into an agony aunt or uncle? If so what which areas of your expertise are in particular demand so I know where to turn in a crisis.