"It's impossible to get good group sex in this town now ! " There are some things I'd like to grumble about, in that "have n't things gone to the dogs, back in the good old days" tone, but on this, absolutely no amount of persuasion would convince any of my friends that I'm talking from a position of knowledge here. I'm not. Not in the past, not now, not ever.

But someone is , if today's Observer is to be trusted, they're even annoyed (oh, to share that mood on this very topic); please step forward, Frederika Fenollabbate, an up and coming Parisian novelist, whose literary beat is the slow death of the City of Light's red light areas. It's her pout that I've used to open this entry; it's got that real standards have gone downhill smack about a pretty taboo subject, thus excellent shock value. Like a stun grenade in a way: there's noise, smoke, and everyone is reeling. There's also a consumerist subtext, the irritation of a gourmet, no longer able to source that exquisite meal or that rare truffle.

I think it's the edginess of people tasting forbidden fruits that she's pushing us to look at: I walk the wild side, I am not one of you. Be that as it may, it's just that I think she is protesting too much, over-asserting how transgressive she wants us to believe she is. In my experience, those who proclaim how bad they are at virtually every opportunity, just how other they can be, and that normal rules don't apply, are talking a great story, but not walking it at all. All mouth, no trousers. The gulf between self avowed intention and action is too deep to be bridged and as likely as me waking up tomorrow morning with a head full of hair. It's that implausible.

So experience has led me to this point of view, however, every reaction has an equal and opposite reaction, and that leads me to state this, and how obvious when you think about it, still waters run deep and so on, but those who are busily upturning the moral handcart and challenging boundaries, are those quiet people we sit next to most mornings on the bus or tube, anonymous, suburbanites, drably dressed. It's them, not her, they're the outlaws.

Me? No Outlaw. Blander than butter. Gimme a group hug...I'll settle for that.