Well, at least I hope they’ll be unforgettable come performance night. First, I have to memorise them. And therein lies the problem.

You see, my once stellar memory is now severely eroded. Or at least, I think it used to be stellar.

I can still remember the date of the Battle of Hasting (1066), the day Elvis Presley died (Aug 16, 1977), and my first kiss way back in 1973.

But I can’t remember what I had for lunch yesterday, or what I wrote last week, or my last kiss.

Of course, I do remember who kissed me last, but the actual kiss itself has left no impression on my memory. Just goes to show how memorable it must have been.

If the person who kissed me last is reading this now, he shouldn’t feel too badly about it. I’m sure there was nothing wrong with his technique. It was probably just a lack of chemistry. If the chemistry’s right, I think most folks would be willing to put up with a not-so-perfect kissing approach.

My first kiss was a completely different story, though. There were bucketfuls of passion and lust at that event, and I can still remember every minute detail of it.

His name was John. He was older than me, tall, blond and very, very popular – most of my girlfriends would have gouged out one of their eyes just to have a date with him.

I can remember feeling incredibly nervous as I got ready for what was to be my first date, ever. So much so that I was convinced my heart would stop pumping the moment John knocked on my front door.

My heart didn’t stop, but my tongue did. After my initial greeting, I was rendered almost mute.

On the walk to the local rugby pitch, I was aware of the size of his hand holding mine, and the sound of his shoes crunching on the pavement, and the way his Adam’s apple moved as he talked.

As we sat side by side in the rugby stands, all I was aware of was his thigh touching mine and the blood pounding in my ears. After a few minutes of one-sided conversation, he turned and pulled me into his arms.

I can still remember the smell of his cologne (Brut) and the warmth of his toothpaste breath as he spoke softly to me. I didn’t hear his actual words – I didn’t need to.

Then our lips met …

The next thing I knew, there was an impatient hand tugging at the zip on my trousers. I pulled away from him and asked him what he was trying to do.

“What does it look like?” he said, just before breaking into an expectant grin.

I was hugely disappointed.

But I digress …

I think I was talking about my failing memory before I got sidetracked; my failing memory and all those lines that need to be memorised.

As it is, my stage husband, a man who obviously consumes large quantities of gingko to aid his memory, has almost got his lines down pat.

“Oh, I can memorise my lines over the course of a weekend,” I said somewhat nonchalantly during our last rehearsal.

I think I managed to assure him and my director that everything was under control, but I don’t think I’ve managed to convince myself.

You see, that weekend is now here, and just the thought of spending two days holed up in my house doing nothing but memorising lines holds about as much appeal as a bad kiss.

Or a long series of bad kisses, to be more precise.

Still, once I’ve learned my lines, I can really begin to develop my character. And that’s the fun part of acting; assuming a personality different from your own. It’s especially thrilling to take on a character who does and says things that you would never dream of doing in real life.

Nonetheless, I’m grateful that there is no kissing in this play. I’ve never experienced a stage kiss before, and the idea of smooching in public, staged or otherwise, is not on my “to do” list.

However, I do get to pat my stage husband on the bottom in front of his real wife. I’m quite looking forward to that.

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

Something told me that it might be the battery. I’m not sure where this mechanical insight came from, but not being one to ignore a gut feeling, I did what many women the world over might have done under similar circumstances: I removed one of my shoes and applied it to the battery connection points.

After subjecting my battery to several minutes of rigorous whacking, I jiggled the nearby connecting cables, just in case something had come loose. Feeling oddly optimistic, I tried to start my car again.

Nothing.

So I did what anyone else would have done under similar circumstances: I repeated the whacking and the jiggling routine.

Still nothing.

Stupidity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Even I know that. So I put my shoe back on.

By this time it was almost midnight. I thought about calling my vehicle breakdown service, but experience told me that it could take at least 45 minutes for someone to get to me, and I didn’t want to spend about an hour waiting at the side of the road at that time of night. So I hailed a passing taxi.

The driver wound down his window and smiled.

Now, I like to see happy, smiley people just as much as the next person, but not if it’s a taxi driver approaching midnight.

When he announced his fare to take me home, he smiled. When I asked him to reduce his fare, he smiled. When I stood my ground and told him what I thought was a reasonable price, he didn’t smile.

Instead, he took on the look of someone who had just been smacked on the side of the head with a very large, wet fish. Oddly enough, I preferred this expression – at least it was real.

Sitting in that taxi, all alone in the dark, except for a strange, unsmiling man at the wheel, I began to feel slightly nervous.

I’m sure most taxi drivers are decent, law-abiding citizens, but I’d read way too many stories about drivers gone bad to feel totally at ease.

I called home and spoke to my answering machine. “Just to let you know that I’ll be home soon. Look out for taxi number 1234 at the gate!” I said in a voice loud enough for the driver to hear.

The following morning, after my mechanic had been out to look at my car and reported back that it was something more serious than a flat battery, I called my breakdown service. Then I called for a taxi to take me back to the abandoned vehicle.

The taxi driver who pulled up at my gate didn’t smile, not even when I greeted him. After verifying my destination, he fell silent.

I wasn’t in the mood for conversation myself, so I stared out the car window and tried to work out how I was going to survive without a car for several days.

When the taxi pulled up at the spot where I’d left my car, it was nowhere to be seen. My heart lurched. Someone had actually stolen my car. As if things weren’t already bad enough.

Then the voice of reason whispered in my ear: “Who’s going to repair a car just so they can steal it?”

I quickly called my mechanic, who told me that he’d actually managed to get the car moving for a short distance before it had stalled in an adjacent road and that he’d forgotten to tell me earlier.

When I told the taxi driver that my car was not where I’d left it but somewhere else, he turned around, looked at me quite seriously and asked: “Were you drinking?”

I preferred it when he didn’t say anything at all.

After the breakdown service had taken my car away for repair, I hailed another taxi to take me home.

This driver continued to smile even after I’d reduced his asking price. He also liked to talk. Indeed, he talked, and talked, and talked. He talked all the way to my house, not once stopping for air. A large wet fish would have come in handy, but I didn’t have one on my person at the time.

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

Although it was largely a working trip, I did manage to schedule some time away from my laptop, and my note-taking, and my recordings to enjoy all that my surroundings had to offer.

One of the most memorable moments of my trip saw me sitting alfresco, on the same street in Florence where Michelangelo’s statue of David can be found, enjoying a Ravioli di Magro and a glass of full-bodied red wine.

“It doesn’t get much better than this,” I found myself thinking.

“All this great culture, great food, great wine, great weather …” Perhaps a thesaurus at hand to give me an alternative for the word “great” might now give you a more accurate description of my surroundings, but everything sure felt great that day.

Another happy day saw me sitting in a client’s sun-filled garden, enjoying creamy lasagne, bruschetta and the sweetest tomatoes I’ve ever tasted and a glass of sparkling white wine – Italian Prozac, as I call it.

I enjoyed the lively company of two teenagers as my host pampered me.

After living on my own for six months, it was good to be with a family again – the great food just made it extra special.

Even on those days when I was working, I still managed to appreciate the Italian lifestyle.

Every morning found me in a bar around the corner from my office enjoying the company of a colleague, a frothy cappuccino and a cream-filled pastry. Workday mornings really don’t get much better than that.

I could go on, but I’m liable to get extremely hungry, wander off into my kitchen in search of sustenance and forget that I’m actually working. Such is the power of good food.

Of course, my gourmet trip came to an abrupt end as soon as I left Italian soil. There’s nothing like airline food, if indeed it can be called food, to bring you back down to earth, so to speak.

Despite my in-flight abstinence, I was painfully aware that I had some excess baggage in tow when I finally landed at Penang’s international airport – excess baggage that I couldn’t stow away in my fridge along with my stash of Italian cheese and salami.

My hedonistic stay in Italy had obviously taken its toll.

Of course, it didn’t help matters that my daughter, who is studying culinary arts at a college in Kuala Lumpur, had returned home for the long Raya break and was eager to pander to my every hunger pang.

After a sumptuous lunch, I slipped my jet-lagged body between crisp, virgin bed sheets and fell into a deep sleep, only to be woken by my daughter just before dusk.

It was time to get ready for her 18th birthday celebration. And what’s a celebration without good food?

“I’ve started so I’ll finish,” I told myself as I slipped into a loose-fitting dress. “My daughter’s birthday is more important than taking care of a few extra inches on my hips.”

Many of life’s other celebrations also revolve around food. There’s nothing quite like the pleasure I get from uniting with friends and family around a table to commemorate achievements, milestones and traditions.

For example, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a roast turkey; my birthday wouldn’t be complete without a dinner with the same two girlfriends who have celebrated with me every year for more than 20 years; and even the passing of a loved one calls for good food to comfort family and friends as they gather to remember a life just past.

When I’m feeling under the weather, food also features largely – I usually revert to the comfort food of my childhood.

On many occasions, I’ve sat down to a bowl of mashed potatoes smothered in gravy and followed by a cup of hot chocolate. Not a nutritionally sound meal, but it soothes me in a way that little else can.

I most certainly don’t live to eat, but my life would be a sadder place without the food I enjoy and the joy that comes from a shared meal.

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

For example, take the San Pietro e San Paolo church, an imposing building that is evident to even the most short-sighted of visitors travelling along the route from Fiumicino airport to the city.

“It’s a new church,” said my taxi driver, when I asked him about it.

“So it wasn’t here a few years ago,” I said, feeling relieved that my downward spiral into impaired faculties wasn’t as bad as I’d thought.”

“Oh, but it was here, but it’s only about 60 years old.”

I laughed. “So 60 years old is new?”

“Rome is more than 2,500 years old. So compared to most buildings in the city, it’s quite new.”

Later, after I’d unpacked my bags, I decided to take a walk in the Piazzo di Spagna, just around the corner from my hotel.

The most famous feature of this tourist attraction is the Spanish Steps, a series of steps that connect the Piazza to the church of Trinita dei Monti.

I didn’t know it at the time but I soon discovered that this is the longest staircase in Europe.

When you’re in the Eternal City suffering from sleep deprivation, the last thing you want to do is tackle an eternal flight of stairs – all 138 steps.

However, sleep deprivation often dupes you into believing that you have superhuman powers; powers of endurance that allow you to get only halfway up a long staircase before collapsing onto a step as you gasp for air.

Spurred on by the beautiful church at the top, I coughed and wheezed my way up those 138 steps.

However, when I finally reached the Trinita dei Monti, a large sign in the church’s entrance depicted the type of clothes that weren’t allowed inside the hallowed building.

Let down by a singlet at the finishing line, I took a few photos of the view from up there and made my way back down those steps to further investigate my new neighbourhood.

Just off the piazza, I was shocked to discover a McDonald’s outlet. “How could this be possible?” I asked myself. “How could a fast food giant be allowed to squat in the middle of all that is beautiful and a testimony to man’s culture and refinement?”

Okay, so the burger joint had slightly refined its outward appearance – the usual yellow arches on a red background had given way to cream on pale copper.

Still, I was reminded of one of my grandmother’s oft-used phrases: “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

My curiosity got the better of me and I decided to investigate the interior of the restaurant.

There was no poster announcing the outlet’s dress code. Instead, I was greeted by marble steps and table tops, Roman statues and pillars, and tasteful murals, with no Ronald McDonald in sight. I took in the slightly surreal scene, turned around and went back to the piazza in search of some real food.

That evening, after a delicious alfresco dinner, I returned to my room to try and catch some much needed sleep before the onslaught of work the next day. However, one hour after closing my eyes, I was wide awake again, with those yellow arches dancing around inside my head.

I did some more investigating, this time via the Google search engine, and it seems that the McDonald’s outlet opened its doors in this elegant district to a public outcry way back in 1987.

The “Save Rome” group protested the “degradation” and “Americanization” of Rome, and called for the outlets’ closure. Still, public opinion was split, and the Italians came in their hordes, giving up their pasta and pizza for burgers and fries.

Then fashion designer Valentino sued McDonald’s for the “foul odours and noise” that found their way into his nearby workshop.

The outlet modified its exhaust system to appease him, and business continued as usual.

Twenty-two years is but a brief moment in the scheme of things. Only time will tell if the white arches will stand the test of eternity.

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

As much as possible, I try to use the same password (my first rabbit’s middle name, followed by the date of birth of my second teacher’s mother-in-law) for everything.

However, I’m often prevented from using this universal access solution, because some sites and services are now asking me to use a combination of, for example, five alpha digits, five numeric digits and three symbols in a password.

Gone are the days when you could use “fluffykins” to get into your bank account. Now you’re forced to use something like “fluffy123kins” or “fluffywhothehellusespasswordslikethis1234”.

Like, who can remember all of these variations? At my age, I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast by the time lunch rolls around most days. To compound matters, some banks require you to change your password on a regular basis. And they’re getting so demanding that they won’t allow you to change, say, “mary1” to “mary 2” – that would just make life too easy.

If you don’t comply, a pop-up message on the website where you have to make the changes will say something like: “The password you are attempting to create is too similar to the previous one. Please try again, you moron. And if you can’t even get that right, you don’t deserve to get your hands on any of the money in your account. Thank you and have a nice day!”

I once attempted to access a bank account online only to be informed that my seven-digit password was no longer valid. “All passwords have to be eight digits long, no more, no less,” said the friendly pop-up message.

Like, hello! Shouldn’t customers at least be informed beforehand of any material security changes? I was forced to call a Help Desk. But before I was allowed change my password, the old (invalid) one had to be officially cancelled.

I couldn’t see the logic in this. It’s like cancelling a flight ticket long after the aeroplane has taken off. The friendly Help Desk person asked me to verify that I was who I said I was by asking me a gazillion questions: mother’s name, father’s name, the very first password I ever created, what I had for breakfast … all of that just so I could rectify an oversight on the bank’s part.

I quickly gave the necessary information and waited expectantly.

Unfortunately, my information was lacking in some way.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go to a bank branch to change the password,” the friendly one said in her carefully modulated voice. “Have a nice day! And don’t forget, you only have three attempts to key in your new password once you get it, otherwise you’ll be denied access.”

The following day, I showed up at the bank and explained my situation.

The friendly receptionist looked at me with an expression that said: “God, not another moron who can’t remember a simple password.”

Then she asked me for the Holy Grail of all passwords: the password that I’d initially created for situations just like that.

“There’s such a password?” I asked, thinking that I must have fallen asleep when I created my account.

“Yes,” she said and looked at me expectantly.

“I’m sorry but I really can’t remember that.”

“No problem. We’ll just put your account into limbo until you can remember.”

Actually, that’s not what she said. But I’m sure she must have been thinking it.

When I got home that day, I wrote my new password on a piece of paper, along with all the other passwords that I’m liable to forget at some stage in the future, and stashed it inside the front cover of a book.

That was a couple of months ago, and I’ve already forgotten the title of the book. It’s enough to drive anyone to drink.

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

It started off as a slight tickle at the back of my throat; a tickle that just wouldn’t go away. For a whole day, I tried to cough that tickle out, but it refused to cooperate. It had taken up residence, dug its heels in and wasn’t going to be evicted so easily.

I’ve never been one to run to a doctor when I have a cold or flu, but I was desperate to get rid of the squatter in my throat. In the end, I did what I usually do when impatience gets the better of me: I searched the Internet for some relief.

One site suggested a hot drink of lemon and honey, two ingredients that I didn’t have at the time. Then I stumbled across an interesting cure on another site that I just had to try out: “When the nerves in the ear are stimulated, it creates a reflex in the throat that can cause a muscle spasm,” says the president of an ear, nose, and throat speciality centre. “This spasm relieves the tickle.”

I stimulated my ears by inserting my little fingers into them and applying the same ear-clearing motion that many of us adopt when our ears are waterlogged. Although I did this for quite a while, there was no corresponding spasm in my throat, only that annoying tickle.

The next morning, I awoke with a scratchy sense of dread. All day, I tried to ignore it, but come evening, I was comatose on the sofa. The tickle had invited some friends to stay: the fever and the chills.

“It’s probably just the unpredictable weather,” I said to myself. “Or the haze. Or the onset of A(H1N1) flu.”

Paranoia drove me back to the Internet, where I searched for symptoms of the virus. To be forewarned is to be forearmed, I told myself. However, too much information can also be a bad thing. And when I found myself reading H1N1 fatality statistics from around the globe, I knew it was time to switch off my computer. I popped a few Panadol, went to bed and hoped that I’d wake in the morning.

The following morning, long before my alarm was due to go off, I awoke with congested lungs. I called a friend.

“What if it’s the onset of pneumonia,” I said.

“You don’t sound as if you have pneumonia,” she said, showing none of the sympathy that I’d been expecting. “If you had pneumonia, surely you would have problems breathing and your voice would be a bit raspy.”

For the rest of the day, I focussed on my work and tried not to think about my physical discomfort.

Still, it’s difficult to be positive when you are coughing and spluttering all over your computer screen.

That night, my congested lungs were still giving me concern. So I donned a face mask and went to my local 24-hour clinic, thinking there wouldn’t be many people out at that late hour. As soon as I entered the clinic, though, I stopped and took in the sea of people waiting to see the doctor. The number of mask-less people who were coughing and propelling all manner of bacteria and viruses into the air gave me cause for alarm.

“If you don’t already have the H1N1 flu, you’re bound to catch it in here,” said a little voice in my head, as I stood in the doorway listening to people barking and wheezing. “You should just get the hell out of here and come back at three in the morning.”

At the same time, another little voice was telling me not to be so paranoid. All I had to do was stop breathing and take a seat at the far end of the waiting room.

I found a seat that no one else was interested in (next to the toilet) and settled down to wait for my turn. Then I started to cough, uncontrollably. Everyone in the waiting room, the other coughers included, turned and looked at me with a collective expression of alarm.

Even if someone had wanted to use the toilet that night, they would have been too scared to walk within one metre of me.

When I finally saw the doctor, he asked a few questions, listened to my congested lungs, examined my red throat and sent me home with a bagful of drugs.

I’m hoping to evict that tickle real soon.

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

One minute he had a high-flying job in the city (London), and the next he was at home with his wife of 25 years, a woman who really doesn’t want him under her feet all the time.

“His retirement is spoiling my retirement,” she recently complained. “Now that the children are both educated and employed, I have an opportunity to do some of the things I’ve always wanted to do but never had the time, but he’s under my feet almost every minute of the day. Every morning, he wakes me up with the same question, ‘What’s for breakfast?’ He used to pick up breakfast from Starbucks on the way to his office, now he expects me to cook for him every morning. It’s the same thing at lunchtime and dinnertime. He also wants to know what I’ll be cooking for his next meal before he’s even finished the one he’s eating. I’ve never cooked lunch on a weekday for years, and I’m not about to start now.”

I listened to her complaints carefully. Since I’ve been living on my own since my divorce 11 years ago, I’m not the best person to turn to when someone has problems with their partner. That would probably be something akin to asking a nun for advice on sexual techniques, or seeking out a bankrupt for financial tips, or turning to an obese person for dieting pointers.

“Can’t you just cook a few meals in advance and freeze them for him so he can defrost them when you’re busy?” I said.

Even as I dispensed my advice, I wasn’t sure if I’d even follow it myself, especially when it comes to someone able-bodied enough to prepare his own meals. After all, a former financial wizard shouldn’t have too much trouble finding his way around a simple cookbook.

“It’s not just the meals,” said my friend. “After years of just seeing him fleetingly on weekday evenings, he now wants to know my every move: where I’m going, what I plan to do, and with whom. All the questions are driving me nuts.”

“Doesn’t he have any friends he can meet once in a while?”

“All his friends are working during the day.”

“Or keeping quiet about being made redundant.”

“But what can I do?”

“Maybe he just needs a hobby to keep himself busy,” I suggested.

“Yeah, like climbing Mount Everest or travelling overland to the North Pole,” she joked.

“Seriously, some people devote so much time and energy to their work they don’t know what to do when they retire. Maybe he just needs a period of adjustment.”

“The way things are right now, I’m the one making all the adjustments.”

“So what exactly does he do all day, when he’s not discussing meal plans and interrogating you on your whereabouts?”

“He watches television. The idiot box is on all the time, even when he’s eating his meals. He might as well eat sautéed cardboard cubes, for all the difference it makes to him.”

“But don’t retired people usually do things together?” I said, thinking about the older couples I knew. “Don’t you have any shared activities?”

“No. When he was working, he always came home late. Then on weekends, we would just relax around the house, watch a movie, drive out to the country, that sort of thing. But we can’t do that every day of the week.”

“Why not?”

“Well, because it’s not very useful. I asked him to get involved with some volunteer work, but he’s not interested.”

Long after I’d said goodbye to my friend that day, I thought about my own retirement. I’ve already made plans for the time when I won’t have to work anymore. I’ll do some things that bring me pleasure, some things that are necessary; and some things that hopefully bring others happiness.

I won’t waste time thinking about the usefulness of my activities. Besides, if watching a movie, or playing Scrabble, or having morning coffee with my friends all bring me a certain measure of happiness, doesn’t that mean they are useful, at least to me?

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

He led me to a mountain of two feet by one foot rectangles of turf, all ready to be laid out. “It’s just like laying carpet tiles,” he assured me. “It couldn’t be easier.”

I’m always wary of people who use the words “couldn’t be easier”. Invariably, such people are experts with years of experience in their chosen field. It’s the same thing with people who use the phrase “It ain’t rocket science.” Just because someone says something is easy doesn’t always make it easy for everyone.

When my turf was delivered to my house the following day, I asked the delivery man if he could help me to lay the stuff. He made a few comments about time being money, so I waved him goodbye, surveyed my de-nuded garden, and then went indoors to wait for the sun to go down.

It was dark before I began laying my grass tiles. Although it wasn’t rocket science, I quickly realised that I didn’t have the necessary muscle power to get the job done before bedtime. Indeed, by the time my two teenagers returned home from a night out with their friends, my arms were numb.

A few minutes later, I was sitting on the front step supervising my children, who were home on term break at a most convenient time for me.

“This is child labour,” joked my 19-year-old as he got his soft, white hands dirty.

“Yes,” agreed his sister. “Aren’t we supposed to be on holiday?”

“Quiet! No talking on the job!” I ordered, in between sips of a long, cool drink.

The next couple of days, I literally watched my grass grow. Before the week was out, I’d trimmed it with a pair of garden shears. A week later, I did the same thing. And the next, and the next … My old cow grass hadn’t required the same attention.

Although frequently cutting the grass with the garden shears did wonders to my arms and other parts of my anatomy, I really didn’t have the time for such a labour-intensive job. So I paid my local hardware store a visit and enquired about grass cutters. I was shown an electric version of the cutter used by council workers. “Should be a piece of cake,” I said to myself, as the component parts of the contraption were unwrapped for assembly.

However, it wasn’t a piece of cake for the three hardware store employees (all men) attempting to assemble my cutter. Oddly enough, none of them thought to look at the instruction manual until they had all exhausted themselves trying to put the pieces together. This male trait comes from the same piece of DNA that allows a man to drive around lost for several hours before asking for directions.

I took my new cutter home and read the instruction manual from cover to cover. This attention to detail is a female trait that comes from the same piece of DNA that allows a woman to constantly ask her partner where he has been, what he has been doing, and, worst of all, just as he is falling asleep, what he is thinking about.

After reading the manual, I realised that I needed a pair of safety goggles to protect myself from flying objects. Like, who has a pair of safety goggles stashed away in a drawer at any given time?

I unearthed an old pair of sunglasses with huge lenses that made look like something out of Return Of The Killer Fly and immediately set to work, shattering the sleepy Saturday afternoon silence of my neighbourhood in the process.

After two minutes on the job, I realised that there is a cutting technique that needs to be mastered before you can achieve grass of a uniform length: a technique that was most certainly beyond my grasp. As a result of my ineptitude, my over-exuberance, and my impaired vision due to those enormous sunglasses, I succeeded in creating several bald spots on my lawn. And these are not small bald pots. Just like the Great Wall of China, I’m sure they are visible from outer space.

I prayed for rain and a quick re-growth.

My prayers were answered. As I write, I’m experiencing the third downpour in just as many days. My grass has sprouted alarmingly and the bald spots are beginning to look less noticeable. At this rate, I will spend the rest of my life cutting grass and watching it grow, and cutting it and watching it grow …

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

I searched inside my car but nothing was missing. My stash of coins for feeding parking meters was untouched, likewise my new golfing umbrella and a small collection of CDs.

However, a small parcel containing clothes my daughter had forgotten on her last trip home had been ripped open and the contents strewn over the back seat. I’d planned to mail them to her the previous day but I’d run out of time.

I picked up her favourite pyjamas with my thumb and index finger and examined them. Although they still looked clean, I couldn’t help but feel that they were contaminated in some way.

Now, if someone had broken into my car and stolen something, I would have concluded that they’d been in desperate need of cash, clothes or an umbrella. I would have cursed them loudly and thought of ways to make my property more secure. But the fact that nothing was missing bothered me. I would have felt more comfortable if my money had been stolen, because I would know exactly what I was dealing with.

As I stood there trying to come to terms with the intrusion, I felt the hair rising on the back of my neck. I had the eerie feeling that I was being watched. Then I heard the unmistakable thud of sound of someone landing on the ground from a height. Someone was at the rear of my house.

Then I heard footsteps in the lane at the side of my house. I turned and saw a tall, slender man carrying a crash helmet. I stared at him, but oddly enough he didn’t even acknowledge that he’d seen me.

I stood on a patio chair to get a better look at him over the garden wall, and that’s when he began to walk faster. It was obvious that he was in a hurry to get away.

“Hey, you there! What have you been doing?” I shouted at his retreating back. But he continued on down the road.

For the briefest moment, I thought about jumping into my car and chasing after him. Perhaps he was heading for his motorbike. If I could get a look at his registration number and report him to the police …. That’s when I stopped myself.

So I did the only thing I could under the circumstances: I washed my car. As I did so, I noticed a number of finger prints on the vehicle’s dusty exterior. One set of prints on the boot clearly belonged to a man. I washed them off along with the dust.

After I’d thoroughly cleaned my car, inside and out, I went indoors and put my daughter’s clothes into the washing machine.

While I’d been cleaning the car, I’d also been thinking about that thud. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest until I’d investigated it. So I went out my front gate and up the side lane to the rear of my house. My kitchen light was on and the door to my laundry area was open, but the wall at the back of my house was too high for me to see inside. Then I noticed the masonry surrounding the open drain. I climbed on top of it and was able to look through my burglar bars. There was a clear view through my laundry area and into my kitchen and beyond. It was now obvious what the man had been doing.

I jumped onto the ground and hurried back indoors. My hands were shaking as I locked my doors, closed my windows and switched on my alarm system.

I couldn’t sleep that night, so I got up and looked beneath every bed and inside every cupboard in the house, not expecting to find anyone but needing to check, anyway. While I was checking the storeroom beneath the stairs, I noticed my tool box.

I went back up to bed with a small axe in my hand.

A few hours later, I awoke from a restless sleep, saw the axe at the side of my bed and had visions of someone breaking in and using it on me. So I returned it to the storeroom and hid the toolbox beneath a dustsheet.

The following morning I made arrangements to have broken glass embedded into the top of my garden wall.

I didn’t lose money that night, but I sure lost my sense of security.

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper

My response? Count me out! Some things in life should be left to the imagination. A walk, a smile, a gait, a way of flicking the hair away from the eyes, the manner in which clothes encase a body, these I often find attractive, but those human appendages and accessories that are normally kept well under wraps often hold little appeal.

Once, while in my early twenties, I visited a nudist beach in the south of England. I’m not quite sure what lured me to the coast that day, but curiosity probably played a major role. I think I was keen to discover exactly what sort of people enjoyed slipping out of their clothes in public.

I had imagined a beach with sand as fine as corn flour, where the body-beautiful could display their finely toned physiques as they lay glistening in the sun. But I was in for a rude awakening. Even though it was the height of summer, the wind that blew in from the sea that day was chilly and the sky overcast.

And worst of all, instead of the silky sand dunes of my imagination, I was confronted with hard, unyielding pebbles. Nudists must have a certain propensity for the masochistic, I thought, as I spread my inadequately thin mat on the furthermost fringe of the beach.

As I was untying my shoe laces, a long, protracted procedure that day, a vast couple – both looking nine months pregnant – crunched past me. So much that shouldn’t wobble, wobbled.

Peering out from behind the relative anonymity of my long hair, I took in my surroundings. It was evident that the more clothes that are removed from the average human body, the less appetising it becomes as a spectacle. After removing my outer garments, I sat for a while with my swimsuit still on, my arms hugging my knees to my chest.

As I studied my goose-pimpled arms, I prayed for the sun to make an appearance – a little warmth and I would feel a lot braver. I think God was testing me that day, because a short while later the sun peeked out from behind the clouds and the wind died down. But as fast as the temperatures soared, my spirits sank.

A group of middle-aged tourists heaved their undulating bodies down to the sea, giving everyone a panoramic view of the pebble imprints on their broad behinds. For the briefest moment, I thought of stripping off and making a quick dash to the sanctuary of the concealing waves, but I was too nervous to run the gauntlet of prying eyes.

Then I slowly became aware of a male figure purposely striding towards me. He was about my age and had the appearance of an Auschwitz inmate – you could have counted his ribs.

He stopped at the edge of my mat and greeted me cheerfully. It transpired that he was a regular there. As he told me a little about himself, I tried hard to maintain eye contact with him. As much as I really didn’t want to look at his anorexic nether regions, I’m ashamed to say that I felt a strong pull in that direction. I concentrated on his short, spiky hair (on his head) and hoped he would quickly take his leave.

Finally, after telling me that I looked conspicuous with my swimsuit on and that the beach was designated for nude bathers only, he crunched off seawards. At that stage, the prospect of removing my last vestments of decency seemed just about as appealing as a trip to the gas chamber.

Most naturists usually defend their bare-all practice by disseminating some dogma about the state of nudity being what their god and Nature had intended for them. But how many of us embrace a lifestyle that is cognate with that which was originally intended? The majority of people these days (so-called naturists included) have bodies that reflect the excess and abuse that are almost inherent in our modern lifestyles – bodies that would be better kept under wraps.

Besides, as someone so wisely said when discussing the pros and cons of ballet performed in the nude: “Not everything stops when the music stops.”

But then again … by Mary Schneider – published every Monday in The Star newspaper