But now I’m angry about the lateness of it all, Mr Mulberry, if you can understand what I mean. The irony is that I’m never late for a meeting, never been a minute late for work or an appointment with my accountant or hairdresser, and yet . . .

All my life I’ve told myself (and been told) that there were plenty of opportunities, plenty more fish in the sea, plenty of time for babies, plenty of good reasons to put off that holiday. But recently I’ve started to see very clearly how late it’s getting. I sit on the toilet in the morning (excuse me, but I do) and imagine myself writing all my regrets on the roll of paper and flushing them away. Releasing them, waving them goodbye like I imagine someone of your enlightened ilk might suggest. The idea has merit, I think (use it if you like; thirty-five years in advertising is a hard habit to kick), but I fear my premium, quilted four-ply wouldn’t cut it, because I’d need an industrial-length roll to fit on all my regrets. And what then, anyhow? Sometimes it feels like the only reason I’m still here is because of some bad joke by the universe to make sure I live long enough to regret the last thing I do. Whatever it may be.

Is there a word, Mr Mulberry, that is the exact opposite of regret? Because I suppose, to tell the truth, that’s the thing I’m looking for help with. And if there is, and if you might care to share it, perhaps this letter will be the one thing I have done that I won’t regret.

Yours (possibly regretfully),

Ms Harriet Motwell, Leatherhead

YOU CAN’T UNRING A BELL

Dear Ms Motwell, I want you to know I’ve thought very long and very hard about your letter because, contrary to what you have assumed, until very recently there’s never been anyone queuing up for my advice. At least not for anything meaningful. I don’t think Tiny John from down the pub asking if he should get Kanye West’s face tattooed on the back of his head counts. (Particularly as I didn’t give my response the consideration I now realise it probably deserved. Although that tattoo is quite something, let me tell you.)

But like I said, long and hard this time, I give you my word. Funnily enough, when I read your letter, I remembered something that happened to me once when I was very young, maybe eight or nine. (Although, to be fair, more and more these days I seem to be reverting to my youth to find answers to life’s questions and I’ve just thought: wouldn’t it be funny if they were there all along?) Anyway, there was a craze going around my school called Swapsie Roulette, where you’d wrap up some item of value in newspaper and throw it in a pile with other kids’ wrapped-in-newspaper items, then pick out a blind trade. Some of the bigger boys kept trying to convince me to play, but the only thing I had to swap was my newish Swatch watch. (And only now that I’m telling this story do I realise they probably planned to totally shaft me all along.) They gave me such a hard time that in the end, I went around the corner with a piece of newspaper, wrapped up my watch, and came back and put it on the pile.