The UN has warned that AIDS is now the biggest killer worldwide of women of reproductive age.

One reason is that the majority of women worldwide - some 70 per cent - have at some point been forced to have unprotected sex. Fundamentally, new research shows, it is men's violence against women that is leading to the rise in AIDS. 

A bigger argument for the empowerment of women could scarcely be thought of. Women throughout history have been subject to violence and rape at the hands of men, and now that can lead not only to injury, unwanted pregnancy and psychological trauma, but also to death at an early age.

It is sometimes easy for us to forget this in the West, where we kid ourselves that we're 'equal', but in much of the world, women cannot even control the most basic matters about their own lives such as their reproductive rights, who they have sex with, whom they marry, how they work or whether they can own property.  

In South Africa - one of the most 'macho' nations in the world - HIV infection is three times more common in young women than in young men, partly due to the prevalence of rape in that society. And in sub-Saharan Africa, the biggest risk factors for AIDS are not to be gay, promiscuous or an intravenous drug user but to be a young married woman. Marriage effectively makes a woman a chattel of her husband in many societies, and their subordinate position makes it impossible for women to insist on safe sex.

In the light of this new research, the UN says it will now incorporate action against violence against women into its worldwide programme to conquer HIV.

After the excesses of Christmas, it's been a relief - and a necessity - to get back to eating normally.

Our Christmas turned out remarkably festive in the end, but four parties in eight days is a long chalk from our normal practice, and the late nights and overeating (and drinking) that accompanied it left us feeling totally exhausted. It was all very lovely, of course, and we thoroughly enjoyed it, but it was time to get to get back to our normal routine. 

It began on Christmas Eve with a gourmet dinner at a friend's. S is a cordon bleu cook and for her, a few nibbles is usually a five-courser that would intimidate the most accomplished cook (amuse bouche of iced tomato coulis with avocado foam and blackcurrants, etc - you get the drift). Christmas dinner was amuse-bouche, foie gras, lamb cutlets with game chips, then pears, vanilla gateaux and creme anglaise.

So adroit is she in her little kitchen that I feel nervous at the idea of having her over, as we eat very simply, and focus mainly on vegetables and starches. Yesterday, for instance, my main meal was a simple concoction of steamed spinach, shaved Cheddar and cherry tomatoes. It barely constitutes a meal at all.

On Boxing Day we had another slap-up meal at the daughter of the above cook (and an equally good cook herself), which was based - as is the French taste - primarily on meat. Smoked salmon and caviar for the amuse-bouche, duck as the starter, great hunks of beef for the main course.

It was all fabulous, especially the orange and tomato sauce for the meat, but this is more meat than we would normally eat in three or four days, all in one meal, and it was at this point that my digestion began to protest. Our hostess lacks a freezer, so we took home the leftovers and this week they did us six more helpings with the addition of copious amounts of veg, finishing up as a curry soup last night.

Our own party on the 28th was the Black and White affair, so the foods were mostly based on caviar, black olives, white cheese and the like. Everybody brought a dish, and I had done enough food for an army, so the next day we gave away the greater part of the salads to a visiting family with six children, and lived for the next three days on leftovers: blinis, choux puffs, coleslaw, celeri remoulade, potato salad, brownies and licorice. A balanced diet this is not.

New Year's Eve was the tipping point for me. I am just not used to these multiple late-night finishes, or so much food, and I normally wilt at 10.00. After snacking on amuse-bouche and champagne all evening, we began to eat in earnest at 10.30pm and by the time we'd finished our main course, it was 2.00am. At this point, I had to concede defeat, so we left to cries of wimpishness. Our undaunted friends finished at 5.00am, got up early and headed for the coast for the day - snow and ice notwithstanding. 

Since New Year, therefore, the DH and I have given our systems some time off - especially from the booze, as I am getting too old to spend every day with a hangover - and have tried to return to our normal habits. This means croissants and coffee for breakfast, a light main meal with lots of veg at lunch, soup or a roll in the evening, meat no more than once a day, a vegetarian day mid-week, and a litre of wine per week rather than aperitifs, champagne, wine and digestifs every day.

The chocolates sent from Yorkshire have all been consumed, the posh biscuits and cakes are nearly all gone, and finally, finally my poor liver can come out of hiding. 

Plenty of people have a problem with moles, but it's usually in the garden. Mine, unfortunately, are on the body.

As I type, I am trying not to think about the amount of pain I'm in. Yesterday I had two moles removed from the sole of my left foot, and next week I go back to have another one taken from my little toe. 

I did not know - as I find many others do not - that moles on the sole of your foot are inherently dangerous. This is a prime site for melanoma, as the sole of the foot is so vulnerable to injury. 

It was my podologist who spotted them and ordered me to see a dermatologist. It was a long wait for an appointment and I put it to the back of my mind until the actual day. My huge relief when she said they were not (yet) cancerous was replaced by apprehension when she warned me that the operation would be very painful and the anaesthetic can give you heart palpitations. 

When it comes to putting myself into other people's care, I am nervous at the best of times, so yesterday was quite a bad day. And having convinced myself that she was only covering her arse in telling me about the pain, I was taken aback by the unbelievable trauma of the injections. 

The reason, I suppose, is that the sole of the foot is well supplied with nerve endings and every one of them was jangling. It felt like the surgeon had put a spear in my foot and was crunching it around in the bones. Later, I discovered, grunting in pain, that I'd bitten a section off the inside of my cheek. 

All went fairly well then until some six hours later when the lidocaine wore off, to be followed by ten hours of searing nerve pain from the tips of my toes to my knee and, consequently, very little sleep. Luckily that has now reduced to a bearable level of 'ordinary' pain, so all that remains is for the wounds to heal. 

I have been ordered to walk on the foot as normal, which is no picnic. If I don't, the scars won't heal properly, as the natural tendency is to curl the foot up and keep weight off it. So, like love's young dream, I am hobbling around with a stick, feeling nauseous with pain and cursing the ineffectiveness of paracetamol. 

Oh la. Well, at least it is done, and it will be the worst of them, I hope. Fingers crossed for next week. 

There is a great video on the Guardian site that I urge you all to watch. It's about how to chuck out your unwanted clothes PROPERLY so that they don't end up in landfill.

As the presenter points out, women are the worst culprits by far when it comes to owning (and then having to throw away) useless garments. But even if you give your old clothes to charity, their usefulness varies. 

Good stuff

1 Denim. Any size, style or colour - this will find a home on the backs or the legs of workers in the third world. Denim is tough stuff, with years of life left in it long after its fashion possibilities have faded. 

2 Tights. Their Lycra content makes them invaluable as bandages in countries like Ethiopia. Send to:

Ethiopia Tights Appeal Tightsplease

2nd Floor, Albion Court

18-20 Frederick Street

Hockley, Birmingham

B1 3HE

3 Bras. British bras are well-made and engineered. Even when broken, they're valuable. But the presenter says you may need to educate charity shops as to their usefulness.

4 Towels. Animal charities can always use old towels, no matter how faded and threadbare. Personally, I use up my old, and other people's old, towels for the dog. 

I used to hate that public schoolboys rag, Private Eye, for their column 'Loony Feminist Nonsense' when I was at college, but I came across an article the other day that put me terribly in mind of it.

It's called 'What my period means to me', and a greater lot of twaddle I haven't read recently. All about the mystic connection to your body and your cycles, and the delights of using a Mooncup. 

My friend R used a mooncup for some years, but two important factors, as she was happy to admit, were that a: she worked from home and b: her bathroom sink was directly next to the loo. Using such a device in my bathroom, where the sink is about 10ft away from the bog, could result in less mooncup and more Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Using one at work hardly bears thinking about. 

Besides, for most of my life, a mooncup would have lasted about 20 minutes, so evil have my periods generally been. Waddling around in two sets of mega-size Doctor White's is more like it, and plastic knickers under my (thankfully navy blue) school uniform. I gave up on Tampax the day I'd filled a new one before even getting out of the room.

Nor do I, unlike the author of this piece, look forward to my next period so that I can get all dreamy and connected with myself. Young women clearly have no remembrance of the days before Ibuprofen became generally available (God bless you, whoever discovered this wonder drug). Pain, cramping, diahorrhea, nausea and fatigue are something I'm quite happy to do without, generally speaking.

My attitude to my periods is, indeed, something like the commentator who said: What I LOATHE is the chemical nightmare that goes on each month that makes me:

paranoid
weepy
irritable ..
DOWNRIGHT ANGRY in bursts
sad
irrational
stupid
ugly
spotty
fat
with bad hair
and The Dread
oh yes ... and forgetful

My husband finds it an absolute treat! Poor man.

Whoever she is, she and I could be twins. I am such an utter bitch before my period (the week that I KNOW I have cancer and everything else...) that I signed the DH up to a red flag alert so he can get in the chocolate on time. 

Still, at least these days, I don't have to wait long for the next period anyway since, as another snippy reader pointed out to the author, once you hit your 40s, there'll be another one along in just a minute, love... 

Och, it's all too much like the 1970s for me. Can't modern so-called feminists give up this hippy shit and get a bug up their chimney about something really important - like luxury VAT on sanitary products or women getting arrested for breast-feeding, or equal pay?