Charlie, my chaplain

One clear sign of getting older is the writing of letters. And I don't mean the kind of letters you used to compose under duress to your grandmother to compensate for not visiting the poor dear. No, I mean letters to strangers. You know those people you have not known or met before but who can still stir a reaction you feel compelled to document. Like a James Blunt "You're Beautiful" moment except you aren't soft: you act firmly on principle.

Let me give you an example. In yesterday's G2 section of the Guardian was this peerless article by the columnist, Charlie Brooker, pillorising David Cameron. Now it doesn't take much to get me cursing the man whose smirk has allowed us to hate the Tories again. For years they were a ramshackle organisation comprising merely of the Parliamentary equivalents of the shouty bloke on the bus who smells of wee and with whom one should not make eye contact, but recently it's become easier to dislike them.

This is down, in no small part, to the fact that if you were to venture down to Portcullis House you would find yourself knee-deep in chinless aspirants in Daks suits attempting to air-kiss the bejesus out of each other and braying so much that you would get confused as to whether they are in the Dispatch Box or a horse box. But, don't take it from me. Charlie is the man.

And so beguiled am I with his column that I wrote to him this morning with the proposal of marriage. What? Surely I am not the only one? Some of you must write fan mail to journalists? Oh no, have I just shown my age?