M is for Manopause, Manipulated Moggies, Malicious Maunderings, and Males.

M for Sis. Just in case you were wondering. And I have two excellent sisters. They are both blessings to the world.

Manopause. In no way am I intending to dismiss or denigrate Menopause, which is something entirely different, yet similar. Well, in a way. On a scale of 1 to 10, Menopause scores an 11 for unpleasantness, while Manopause barely registers.

So, Manopause. I am currently reading a Bill Bryson book, He should write quotes, the way Shakespeare did: he is as quotable. One that leapt out at me yesterday said "I woke up to the realisation that I am now too old to be diagnosed with Early Onset Dementia" and after I had stopped laughing I realised that I fit into that bucket as well.

Any future diagnosis of that bloody awful condition will now be either "Just In Time Dementia" or "Late Onset Dementia". It is, of course, to be fervently wished that neither condition will sneak up on me. I am not comforted by the thought that I will not be aware it has struck me a major smackeroo-blurdy about the left frontal lobe. I shall be too far gone into lolly-land to know that I am there, and that is altogether too bloody unreasonable of nature.

This is Manopause: understanding that finally one is no longer a teenager, and there's nothing one can do about it. The six-pack belly has given way to a 5-litre keg, the legs aren't the iron limbs that could endlessly run for a whole minute, and the biceps now reside under the humerus, and that's not all funny.

In the eyes of my Great Nephew, I am an old bugger. My boobs are bigger than his Mum's are, and when he sees me, dressed in my overcoat and stopped in quiet contemplation of a particularly lovely lamp-post, he knows I've just farted and am both recovering from the effort and enjoying the warmth.

I take more drugs than have ever been run by the Dirty Dogs and Filthy Few motorcycle gangs. If I should cut myself while shaving, it take roughly seven weeks before I stop bleeding. This is Manopause, and I now look pityingly at vigourous young chaps of 50. I laugh, because I know they have no idea that it is going to happen to them. In fact, they live in a delusional world that has them thinking they are still attractive to women half their age, and that they look really sexy and available when they put their cheese-cutter cap on before creaking their way into their 7-litre V12 Holden Falcon STV with chrome plated grease nipples. Ha! They'll learn. If they have as much truly good luck as I had, they'll get Early Onset Arthritis.

The picture here is of Zoe, our graceful Moggy. I have her trained to do exactly what I want. When I want to give her an Early Early Morning pat, she accepts it. Then the Early Morning Pat, the Late Early Morning Pat, the Morning Pat, the Early Late Morning Pat, and so on. She accepts it, because she has to.

Malice: It seems we are to get some new legislation about Hate Speech. I am ambivalent about it. I dislike the whole idea of censorship, and treasure the freedom we have to say what the hell we like - but I am frustrated by the Facebook dickheads who casually disseminate sexism, racism, creedism, and ismism. Hatred, too. Haterism?

The Minister of Justice, Kris Fa'afoi, has announced several new measures that are contained in the proposed legislation, including the news that offenders could face a hefty fine and / or imprisonment.

The question I ask is this: what possible good will it do to punish someone for their views? Surely we should be looking at providing them with counselling and education? Teach them how to think, instead of simply responding?