Recently by Ken Oxley

I think I'm developing an aversion to decision-making. It's one of the trials of modern life.

It's all about choice and everywhere you turn, there are just too many options . . . too many TV channels, too many radio stations, too many websites offering too many services.

But the choice explosion is not confined to the digital revolution . . . it has even infiltrated the humble sandwich.

Teenagers are generally lazy, thoughtless, stroppy and uncommunicative . . . and that's just their good points.

Generally, attempts to discipline them are usually pretty lame. Most criticisms, however diplomatic, tend to be met with the mumbled "whatever" or "stop going on" followed by the obligatory rolling of the eyes.

But even by our standards, my wife's latest attempt to tick off our 17-year-old was, frankly, useless . .

Like most people, I complain about my job from time to time. There are never enough hours in the day, resources are always spread too thinly and then there's all the internal politics to deal with.

But whenever the pressure gets to me, I remind myself of one thing . . . at least I don't have to pee in a bucket.

Odd isn't it, how it's always life's little irritations that wind you up the most. If something major goes wrong, you just get on and deal with it and all the other stuff becomes irrelevant.

But when you're up against the little things in isolation, what should be a minor annoyance gets magnified out of all proportion.

It was like that with my fridge door . . .

You've no doubt heard the expression "many hands make light work" and presumably, like me, there have been occasions when a little help makes all the difference to an onerous task.

But I discovered this week that there's one situation where an extra pair of hands just leads to trouble . . .

I wrote my mum's life story the other day . . . on half a sheet of A4 paper.

It was a weird experience, having to sum up 76 years in a few carefully chosen sentences.

I'm not afraid to show my feminine side. So I don't mind admitting that, when it comes to cars, I have a tendency to be a bit girly.

For example, last August I splashed out on a very nice BMW convertible (it came with a free mid-life crisis thrown in) but some eight months later I still can't tell you what size the engine is or the precise model specification.

And don't even bother to ask me what the registration is. . .

I'm feeling slightly guilty for complaining in my last blog about my youngest son being lazy and only interested in snowboarding.

I think I must have jinxed him because the day after I wrote it he fell head over heels on the dry ski slope and broke his thumb.

I used to think I had the nature v nurture debate sussed. As far as I was concerned, all newborn babies were pretty much a blank canvas.

So it was nurture all the way. Parental input - and that of peers - is what makes us who we are, right?

My wife sent me a text message the other day to tell me she thought I was a "jazz hit". That's nice, I thought.

A slight exaggeration, mind you. Because although I play the guitar - and even own a semi-acoustic Ibanez that's perfect for jazz - I'm really more of a determined strummer than a virtuoso performer.