Noelle McCarthy: It's time to become an agony aunt

I had a thought: "I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth."

You don't say. Well, you do actually. It would appear that these columns have become somewhat lugubrious in tone.

I know this because you have written to tell me so. In large numbers, and at some length. The last column I wrote about my Ponsonby winter of discontent inspired many of you to email and get in touch, some to inquire gently as to the state of my mental health.

Others to wonder why, if I am so unhappy here, do I not just f... off home? A reasonable question, I suppose, and one I am attempting to answer, chiefly by means of this space.

More and more, I am using this column to try to get some answers.

This is me thinking out loud. About why I am here, physically here, mentally here, spiritually here right now, and what I should do. Why we are here, and what, if anything, is the point of it all.

You know where I'm going with this, stop me if you've heard this one before.

But believe me, gentle (and vicious) readers, this was never my intention.

When I was first asked to write for this paper, I had lofty hopes of being as relevant and incisive a commentator as ever filled column inches. I wanted to be witty, I wanted to be fearless, but above all, I wanted to be timely.

To engage meaningfully, stylishly, with the issues of the day in a voice that would only get more elegant and distinctive as time went on. More Jane Clifton than Julie Burchill I suppose, and it probably tells you a lot about my parameters that I even compare the two.

Anyway, that's what I was after in the beginning. Topical, timely and polished, please. Ha, as they say, ha.

In the following almost two years, my thoughts regularly lumbered across these pages with all of the grace and elan of two hippos, covering a range of subjects from turning 30 to my sister coming to visit and whether I should spend $1500 on a pair of shoes. In fairness, most of you like Alexander McQueen stilettos and said I should.

I never intended to be so confessional, to fill this space with how I feel about my age, my life, my family, my shoes, but it seems a natural thing to want to write about the things in my life, and in doing so to sharing my life with you.

And lately, all my life is, is questions. The same questions, over and over again.

What am I doing here? Why do I live in New Zealand? Do I have a good life, or should I change it? Or parts of it?

Do I do good work, and is my work worthwhile? Is it a bad thing that I own no furniture except for a bed and a timeshare in three black bar stools and a lovely cream couch?

Should I be asking more questions? Or is it self-indulgent to even ask the ones I do? This is nothing but a column of questions really, and I can feel the ghost of Carrie Bradshaw hanging over it like a banshee in Manolos.

A column of rising inflexions, written in a city by a single woman, who has already mentioned shoes. Miles away from Jane and Julie. I don't think they've ever written about shoes.

But I am not Julie Burchill, much less Jane Clifton, nor am I Carrie Bradshaw, thank God. Although I wanted to be, in that episode where she wore the ivy crown on her head, eating icecream on the street.

I am me and friends are emailing to ask, kindly, what is wrong? Nothing, but I am wondering (another question!) does everybody else have questions too? Do you? What are your questions? What are your concerns?

We're all worried lately. Worried about our jobs, and our houses, and our loves and our stuff.

That's how it feels to me, anyway. My circle of friends has notched up four redundancies and three marriage break-ups in the last two months alone, not to mention a bunch of babies (new people to worry about!) and a few personality implosions along the way.

Oh, we'll be OK, of course we will, but there just seems to be a fair amount of care around at the moment. It's making me want to reach out.

This is strange. I discovered during my brief time doing talkback radio, the vast majority of people don't interest me at all. But tonight, suddenly, I care. I care about all of you. Even those of you who wrote and told me I was a bitch when I said Susan Boyle had brillo pad hair.

So, if you want to write and tell me your problems, please send them to me care of this paper, or email the link below.

I can't solve them, obviously, but I can put them in this column and talk about them, and give them an airing.

I am willing to give you the benefit of my thought and insight on any and all subjects. I am especially knowledgeable on questions of clashing colours, NZ immigration and shoes. Write and tell me.