Dating when your biological clock is ticking opwekkingsliederen luisteren online dating
In the past 15 or 20 years in particular, the cult of celebrity entertainment has spread through our culture like Japanese knotweed in a garden.
The stands at newsagents groan with magazines bearing the images of pinched-looking, heavily tanned women, who are all – for one reason or another – purporting to be miserable because they’ve been rejected in love, or are envious of someone else’s baby. I now know, for example, that the model Katie Price frequents the sunbed three or four times a week, but frets about turning her skin to leather.
It's time to synchronise your biological clocks For years, the dreaded “tick-tock” of the biological clock has been attuned solely to women, while men merrily blocked their ears.
Now it appears to be ticking for men, albeit more quietly: a study last week found that the chances of a man getting his wife pregnant drop by 7 per cent each year between the ages of 41 and 45, after which they plummet more sharply.
But, increasingly, it seems that in the last 50 years or so, we have become generally less intelligent: more obsessed with trivia, shorter in our attention spans, more inward-looking and less widely knowledgeable.
Those in my grandparents’ generation – who often left school at 14 – appeared more educated and articulate than many graduates today, thanks to a lifetime habit of reading for pleasure and a powerful interest in current affairs.
Another day, another detailed lament from British employers about “the lack of skills in the local labour market”.
As a report by the British Chambers of Commerce found last week, almost half of employers say that when they have a job vacancy, they find it difficult or impossible to find a British candidate with adequate literacy, numeracy, willingness to work and enthusiasm for time-keeping.
Everywhere around us today, there is a surfeit of nutritionally empty information.
Why did I consume that utterly meaningless mini-fact?
I read it somewhere, and it stuck, perhaps because I am sneakily interested in the question of at what point vanity destroys beauty.
Last month, I bought a copy of a Daily Mirror front page from September 1961, as a birthday present for a relative: it had a full and detailed account of the crisis in the Congo, where Irish UN troops had come under attack from Katangan secessionists.
I doubt that we would see such a front page now: the bloody representations of a battered, dying Colonel Gaddafi across the press last week inhabit a somewhat different category.