After a bunch of lager louts woke me up by having a slanging match in my garden at midnight, I wrote to my paper's agony aunt for advice. His reply: "Don't get your knickers in a twist, just laugh it off, pretend it never happened, and Bob's your uncle." Considering that they were going at it hammer and tongs, this was cold comfort, and I can't just let it lie. If I do, it might be the thin edge of the wedge, and soon all the world and his wife will be using my backyard for their blarneys. The lesson in all this? Columnists who give good advice are thin on the ground.