I was reading the supplement of a right wing newspaper the other day when a jolt of panic went through me.

This is not unusual. This happens every time I read this magazine. It's engaging, it's lively, and it is full of articles which make independent 30-something women want to crawl under the duvet and weep.

So far this year I have read articles which have made me frightened of; leaving it too late to get pregnant, getting pregnant too late to be healthy; living on my own too long and becoming dysfunctional; liking my career too much and becoming unlovable; spending too much time pursuing my own activities that I grow apart from my boyfriend; not owning a house and thus ending up destitute; and paying such scant attention to my beauty regime that I'll end up wrinkled as a handbag and thus unlovable, alone, etc etc.

These articles don't explicitly preach certain doom. Worse, they imply, with some carefully selected case studies, and let you work out why you would be much better off chained to the ironing board eight months pregnant.

This most recent article was a corker. Highlighting the loneliness of modern society, it recounted the cheery tale of a young woman who died while at home wrapping her Christmas presents, and whose body was discovered two and a half years later. I'll just let that sink in. TWO AND A HALF YEARS.

My first thought was, which ungrateful people knew this woman well enough to be receiving a Christmas present from her but didn't notice she'd been a little on the quiet side for the past two Chrimbos?

My second thought, of course, was that if I accidentally choked on a Twiglet, how long would it take anyone to miss me. After some frenzied calculations I decided my other half would probably raise the alarm after 48 hours or so. But what if he didn't exist? (you can see how these things escalate.) In that instance I decided that since I'm self employed, work from home, live alone and my family live in Wales, the first person to notice my absence would be the man from the corner shop, who I hope might idly wonder where I'm getting my milk these days.

But then I speak to my best friend on a regular basis, and my mother does tend to start panicking if she doesn't hear from me for a week, so I suppose I could safely assume they'd be down my street with a battering ram if I wasn't picking up the phone. Except, say, if they were both coincidentally on holiday. Or I'd fallen out with them. In fact, you lot would probably miss me soonest. Here's the deal. I won't let any Twiglets past the threshold, but if I don't pop up here, same time, same place next week, say you'll think about making a phone call.

So, can you see the scaremongering effect these articles have? Frankly, if I wasn't made of sterner stuff I'd be unhappily married with seven kids by now, just to make sure there's going to be someone to take down the details should I get accidentally electrocuted by a waffle iron.

Of course I wouldn't do anything as silly as that. No. I'll just avoid waffle irons.