I know stuff, but I'll never score the job of writing the Agony Aunt column.
It's sexism. We have handbags full of Agony Aunts, but where are our Agony Uncles?
The kindly blokes who focus a lifetime's wisdom on problems like: ''At last I've been offered my first job as a chef - but it means manning the barbecue at a nudist camp. What should I do? - ''Worried,'' of Wanaka.
''Burgers on buns, I should think. Avoid sausages.''
A sensitive man can nut-out that solution as smartly as any Agony Aunt. But it's to no avail. The bloke may practise up on ''my boyfriend wants to ...'' letters, and stick his nose into other people's affairs - but when he throws his hat in for the agony gig, he'll be rejected.
It's unfair, but it wasn't ever thus. The agony column was actually invented by a chap.
It was 1691, and John Dunton, who'd begun a troubling extramarital affair, could find nobody to agonise with. Then came the Eureka moment.
Surely, he wasn't the only person up to his waders in a moral quagmire, so why not create a magazine that answers life's trickier questions?
The more he thought, the better his brainwave seemed. Most of the content would we be admirably salacious, (tick the box) and whacko, readers would provide him free content. (Double tick. Just like the internet).
Dunton's Athenian Gazette was soon followed by a Scandal Club section in The Review, published by Daniel Defoe, of Robinson Crusoe fame.
The canny Defoe twigged that agony letters could be stretched into instalments.
A prostitute asked Scandal Club how she might extract payment from a client who'd sampled generously, but failed to produce the coin of the realm. Defoe announced: ''Farther hearing of this matter is referred to the next meeting of the Club.''
I'm searching for a Defoe response to an overworked society hostess.
''Dear Sir, I have so much to do, I find that by the weekend I can no longer cope. What can you suggest?'' (Anonymous, Buckingham Palace).
''Dear Madam, Cease worrying. Only Robinson Crusoe has everything done by Friday.''
I knew two agony aunts. The first, who wrote the Dear Suzy column for the Daily Mirror, offered sound advice and sometimes rose in her stirrups to administer a brisk flick of the crop to fools.
Last I heard, she'd progressed to Horse Magazine. Suzy sat a few desks from me, near the Literary Editor, who was just up the row from the very fat man who penned The Wisdom of Solomon. (Solly did the trotting tips).
We drank at the same pub as Tina, the other agony aunt. I don't recall Tina's alma mater, but she was a qualified sexologist.
Most letters to her magazine sought the female orgasm, but not all. Her husband, who pounded the keyboard next to mine, had a bad day at work when Tina was asked to decide the length of the average male appendage.
Perhaps it's best I take the bull by the horns, and just audition as Uncle Wally.
Here goes.
Dear Uncle Wally,
I was five minutes from home when my car spluttered and conked out. It wouldn't restart so I walked back through the rain, and found my husband in bed with my best friend. She's not even that pretty. What should I do? - ''Cheated,'' Caversham.
Dear Cheated,
This is upsetting, but really you must have noticed some worrying early signs? This is what happens when you get dirt in your fuel injector. Make sure your fuel line is clean, then check the hoses on the vacuum pump, as well as the lines to the manifold.
Dear Uncle Wally,
I fell while retrieving my golf ball from a rabbit hole, broke my leg badly, and am on crutches till Christmas. It happened on a private course, not public links. Does this affect my entitlement? - ''Now Unemployed,'' South Dunedin.
Dear Now Unemployed,
Good news! It doesn't matter whether the course was public or private - your entitlement is unaffected. Either way you are entitled to drop your ball within a club length of the rabbit hole, (but no closer to the green), without penalty.
If you think I have the knack for this, please write your ''We Want Wally'' letters to the editor.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
