Dear Joely: My Friend Ditched Me for a Pub Fixture

Dear Joely,

I'm a 55-year-old woman living in Melbourne. I have a good female friend, a bit older than me, whom I have known for many years. We don't catch up often enough, but when we do, we always vow not to leave it so long before getting together again.

When we do get together, we normally start with dinner and a catch-up. The wine begins to flow, and then we go to a few bars for drinks afterwards. Because it's such a rare thing, it's not unusual to get a bit tipsy and find ourselves doing something silly like karaoke or dancing with very young men. The next day, we text to compare hangovers. It might seem a bit childish, but for us, it seems to be a good way to dust off the cobwebs.

On the last occasion, we ended up in this rather awful bar. Many of the men there looked as though the place was their second home. They seemed to come up to us one after the other and try their luck. I found it rather dull and would have preferred to carry on talking together, but my friend started getting all giggly and girly with one of these men. I was trying my best not to be bitchy towards the man involved. Smile politely, etc.

My friend at one point excused herself to go to the ladies. After she left, the man tried harder to get a laugh out of me, but I was not impressed. At one point, he asked me if I'd rather he left me alone, and I actually nodded. So he left, and I waited for my friend.

And I waited. And I waited some more.

I began to worry that she might have been more tipsy than I suspected, so I decided to go and check the ladies' toilet. I didn't make it all the way back when I spied her in the beer garden. She and the boring guy who had been chatting with us previously were deeply engaged in a game of tonsil tennis. I was utterly floored and, to be honest, disgusted.

I went out, tapped her on the shoulder and said that I was going home. She made some protests, but I left before I could hear what she had to say.

I didn't hear from her again that night, but the next morning she texted a light-hearted message, hoping I got home safely, telling me she had a shocking headache and probably wouldn't be moving for the rest of the day. I just sent the normal smile emoji back in response.

I can't bring myself to reply. I still feel too angry. How dare she trade me in for some boozer? It's thinking of myself sitting there waiting for her, feeling concerned, while she wasn't giving me a care in the world that really sticks in my craw.

I haven't responded to her yet apart from that. I do love this friend, but I can't see myself going out with her again if that's the way she's going to carry on. Neither can I see us having a conversation about this that won't end badly.

I'm too old for this.

Yours

Pissed off, to be honest

Dear Pissed Off,

You are not too old for karaoke, questionable bars or dancing with men whose birthdays occurred alarmingly recently. You are, however, too old to be left sitting alone in a pub wondering whether your friend has fallen into a toilet cubicle while she is outside conducting an enthusiastic oral examination of a man who appears to have come with the furniture.

The problem is not that she kissed him. She is entitled to flirt, giggle and make decisions that look significantly less enchanting under the hard light of morning. The problem is that she vanished without telling you, left you waiting and worrying, and then sent a breezy hangover bulletin the next day as though the evening had concluded exactly as planned.

That was inconsiderate. You had gone out together. At the very least, she owed you a quick: “I'm heading outside with him. Are you all right getting home?” Friendship does not require a permission slip before tonsil tennis, but it does require basic courtesy.

I would not end a longstanding friendship over one drunken lapse, especially when you clearly love her. But I would not swallow your anger and pretend nothing happened either. Resentment kept under the tongue has a nasty aftertaste.

Say something simple:

“I was really upset that you disappeared without telling me. I was sitting there waiting and worrying about you, and then found you outside with him. I don't care that you kissed someone, but I do care that you left me without a word.”

That keeps the issue where it belongs. Not on the boring man. Not on her sexuality. Not on whether women in their fifties should know better than to behave badly in bars. On consideration.

Her response will tell you far more than the incident itself. If she is mortified and apologises, the friendship probably survives with one useful amendment to the constitution: no disappearing into beer gardens without notifying the other member of the delegation.

If she laughs it off or tells you that you are overreacting, then the problem is larger than one ill-advised snog with a pub fixture.

You are not too old for silly nights. You are simply old enough to expect better manners during them.

With sympathy for the hangover you didn't deserve,
Joely

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Dear Joely is the resident advice column at Slightly Penetrating: candid letters about friendship, sex, relationships and modern social disasters, answered with warmth, dry humour and considerably less judgement than some situations deserve.

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The Case of the Wandering Toe Four neighbours. Two spas. Forty toes. Only one of them is causing trouble. I Said the Cruel Thing Out Loud at Dinner One dinner party, too much wine, and a truth that should never have arrived with witnesses. Browse every Dear Joely letter

Dear Joely: The Case of the Wandering Toe

Dear Joely,

I am fortunate to live in one of the nicer areas of Sydney with my husband and our two young children. All is as well as can be in those departments.

We are very good friends with our neighbours across the street. They are a couple, about ten years older than us. Every month or so, the four of us get together for drinks and some food. We alternate between our houses as the venue.

We both have spas in our yards and, at the end of these evenings, we usually end up having a tub together, with more drinks and chats. We don’t wear clothes on these occasions. This isn’t for any racy reason. It just came about because none of us normally wears clothes when in our own spa, so we figured: why would we start on these social evenings?

Nothing is made of the nudity, and we all really enjoy chatting together in the warm tub under the stars.

All good so far, but the problem is this: the male neighbour has taken to touching me underwater with his toe.

I don’t mean an accidental touch. I mean he is putting his toe between my legs and looking for encouragement.

This is incredibly awkward for me. If I call it out when it’s happening, that’s the evening — and possibly future get-togethers — finished. Or he could deny it.

If I speak to the female neighbour about it alone — we are very close as friends — she might feel awkward or jealous, or not believe me.

I told my husband, and he seems more amused than anything.

I don’t want to encourage him in any way. I like things, apart from this problem, as they are.

I learned of your page from a different friend and thought — hoped — you might be able to help.

Yours

Unwanted Toe Attention

Dear Unwanted Toe Attention,

What a beautifully civilised arrangement you have created: good friends, warm water, drinks beneath the stars — and one man’s big toe attempting to start a separate social programme.

Let us clear up the only part that appears to be confusing anyone. Being naked in a spa is not an invitation to be touched. Your neighbour knows the difference between an accidental brush of the foot and deliberately placing his toe between your legs while watching to see what happens next.

This is not a rogue limb. He is conducting a small underwater feasibility study:

Will she react?
Will she say anything?
Might the toe be permitted to return?

The answer to the final question must be no.

You do not need to turn the evening into a neighbourhood emergency or suddenly announce, “Whose toe is that, and why is it there?”

Although it would settle the question rather efficiently.

The next time it happens, move away, look directly at him and say quietly:

“Please don’t do that again.”

No nervous laugh. No apology. No long explanation that allows him to pretend you have misunderstood the fascinating migratory habits of his foot.

If he denies it, simply say:

“Good. Then it won’t happen again.”

That is all you need.

I would not begin by speaking privately to his wife. He created the problem, and it should not be handed to the two women to manage between them over coffee. Speaking to her first also gives him the opportunity to deny it before you have ever addressed him directly.

Your husband’s amusement deserves a second conversation too. Tell him plainly that you are not flattered, entertained or secretly enjoying the attention. You feel uncomfortable and sexually intruded upon, and you need him to take that seriously. He does not have to storm across the street with a pool noodle unless that is what you want, but he does need to stop treating it as a saucy neighbourhood anecdote.

You are worried that objecting may spoil the evening or end future gatherings.

But darling, the evenings are already being spoiled. You are sitting in warm, bubbling water wondering whether a toe is about to make another covert border crossing while everyone discusses schools, renovations and interest rates above the surface.

That is no way to relax.

One calm, unmistakable boundary may be enough to return the foot to ordinary civilian life. Should it happen again, I would retire the shared spa evenings altogether. Not because nudity caused the problem, but because one guest has shown that he cannot be trusted with the arrangement.

Warm water, cold drinks and neighbourly nudity can coexist perfectly well.

They simply require all four adults — and all forty toes — to behave themselves.

Yours, with both feet firmly where they belong,

Joely

More dilemmas? Read more letters and replies in the Dear Joely advice column.

Dear Joely: The Towel Fell. His Assumptions Shouldn’t Have.

Dear Joely,

I live in a rather large share house in Surrey. I'm 28 and it suits me at the moment. I only knew one of my housemates when I moved in. There are three others, two females and one male, that I had never met before. I get on well with each of them, but we tend to get on with our own lives and cross paths fairly randomly, mostly. I've been here for about three months at this point.

Without getting super complicated, most of our bedrooms, with the exception of the girl I knew when I moved in, are on the first floor.

A few weeks ago, I went through a hard time with a work situation. I'm not a big drinker, but on that particular occasion I decided to bring a few beers home and sit in my room and drown my sorrows. When I drink beer, it gives me a particularly strong signal when I need to have a wee. And this particular night was no exception.

It had gotten late and the house was quiet. I made the decision to creep down the hallway in just a short towel to use the toilet. I know this isn't acceptable in a share house, but I genuinely thought everyone was in bed. I was down in the dumps and a little bit tipsy.

Anyway, I ran into the one male who rents a room here. It sounds like a bad comedy, but I was so shocked when I ran into him that I dropped my towel. I was incredibly embarrassed, of course, but numbed a little bit by alcohol. I made some ridiculous remark and carried on to the bathroom.

You might think that might be the end of the story, but it isn't. He has taken this as an invitation to begin pursuing me, I think. He talks to me more than he used to. He hints at eating together and has sat down in the lounge room when I have been watching TV a couple of times. That's not a problem, but he tries to initiate conversation. Also, not a problem, but he would never have done this before the towel-dropping incident.

Last Friday, I was dressed up to go out and meet a girlfriend when he saw me on my way out. He asked where I was going and what time I thought I'd be home. The bottom line is things have gotten awkward. I'm really not interested in him. I wish I was. It would be too easy. But I'm not. So, what I have left is awkward, awkward, awkward.

I thought you might be able to help with some advice.

Yours

Regretting the Towel Dash

Dear Regretting the Towel Dash,

First of all: yes, walking down the hall in a towel in a share house is a risky little expedition. But let us not get hysterical. You did not stage a cabaret. You did not issue engraved invitations. You were tipsy, sad, caught short, and made a poor wardrobe decision between your bedroom and the toilet. These things happen. Sometimes the human body has needs and the laundry basket has the only available strategy.

The important point is this: accidentally dropping your towel is not consent, flirtation, foreplay, or a legally binding indication of romantic interest. It is a towel mishap. A mortifying one, yes, but still just a towel mishap.

Your male housemate appears to have taken one awkward glimpse of you and built himself a small conservatory of hope. That is unfortunate for him, but it is not your responsibility to furnish it.

You do not need to apologise for not fancying him. You do not need to reward his interest because it would be “easy.” Easy is not a reason to let someone into your life, your bed, your evening, or your nervous system. If you are not interested, that is the whole answer.

What you need now is a calm, boring, unmistakable boundary. Not dramatic. Not cruel. Not a house meeting with biscuits and laminated minutes. Just something direct enough that he cannot keep pretending the situation is charmingly ambiguous.

The next time he asks where you are going, when you will be home, or hints at dinner, say something like:

“Just so there’s no misunderstanding after the other night, I’m not interested in anything romantic or sexual between us. I’m happy for us to be friendly as housemates, but that’s all.”

Then stop talking. Do not pad it with “sorry” six times. Do not explain that you are busy, complicated, healing, not ready, emotionally unavailable, secretly joining a convent, or allergic to men who appear near bathrooms. Explanations invite negotiation. Clarity closes the door.

If he is decent, he will be embarrassed, back off, and life will become awkward for approximately seven to ten business days before everyone resumes pretending to be normal around the kettle.

If he does not back off — if he keeps asking where you are going, monitoring when you come home, sitting himself beside you despite your discomfort, or making the house feel unsafe — then this stops being a comedy of errors and becomes a housemate problem. In that case, speak to the housemate you already knew before moving in, and consider putting the boundary in writing. You are entitled to use the lounge, the hallway and the toilet without being quietly auditioned as someone’s girlfriend.

As for the towel dash: retire it. Not because you have done something shameful, but because communal living is already intimate enough without adding accidental nudity to the rota. Buy a robe. A proper one. Belted. Reliable. Less “French farce,” more “woman with bladder and boundaries.”

You are allowed to laugh about this eventually. But you are also allowed to feel uncomfortable now.

The towel fell. That was an accident.

His assumptions are not.

With sympathy, and a firm recommendation for pyjamas with elastic,

Joely

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Dear Joely: Why Do I Keep Going Back to Men Who Hurt Me?

Dear Joely,

Congratulations on your column. I have really enjoyed it so far. You make me smile and sometimes laugh. I hate that I need to write to you about something serious. If my letter is too much of a corta-onda — as we say back in Brasil — please don’t publish it.

I am 26 years old. I grew up in an abusive household. There was always a lot of yelling. My father was a drunk and when alcohol was involved, it was nothing for him to hit my mother.

As kids, my older sister and I tried to protect her as best as we could, but we couldn’t be there all the time. She would often walk around bruised and, of course, she suffered mentally as well.

My sister left as soon as she could, leaving me alone with my mother and father from age 13. I didn’t blame her. I still don’t.

My mother died young from cancer — at just 45. It is fair to say life was a disappointment to her.

I say all this by way of my background. My problem is that I’m finding relationships incredibly difficult. I tend to date men who are a fair bit older. Things start well, but they always turn out abusive.

I don’t stick around when this happens, but I have been known to go back and “visit the scene of the crime,” hoping things will be different. Of course, they never are.

I have tried going to counsellors. I can’t seem to relate to them and there are not many where I live. I know you can’t solve a problem that has been with me forever, but I just thought you might be able to give me some perspective.

Thank you, Joely,

Machucada

Dear Machucada,

First, your letter is not a corta-onda. It is not a mood-killer. It is a human being telling the truth.

And I’m very glad you wrote.

You grew up in a house where love and fear were tangled together before you were old enough to know they should be separate things. You watched your mother being hurt. You tried to protect her when you were still a child yourself. Your sister left, as she had every right to do, and you were left carrying far too much.

That is not “background.” That is weather. That is the climate your nervous system grew up inside.

So when you say you now find relationships difficult, I’m not surprised. Not because there is anything wrong with you, but because you learned intimacy in a dangerous room.

This is the part I want you to hear clearly: you are not choosing abusive men because you are stupid, weak, dramatic, or secretly “asking for it.” You are being pulled toward a pattern that your body recognises before your mind has a chance to object.

Sometimes what feels like chemistry is actually familiarity wearing perfume.

Older men may feel steady at first. Protective. Certain. Grown-up. But if the dynamic later becomes controlling, cruel or abusive, then the age difference may be part of the power imbalance, not an accident beside it.

The fact that you leave when abuse appears matters. That is a strong and sane instinct. Please respect that part of yourself. She is trying to save your life.

The part I would be more careful with is what you called “visiting the scene of the crime.” That phrase is painfully accurate. Going back to someone who has already shown you harm is not romance. It is the old wound asking whether this time the story might end differently.

I understand the hope. Of course you want the person who hurt you to become the person who makes it right. That would feel like justice. It would feel like repair. It would feel, perhaps, like rescuing the younger version of you who could not rescue your mother.

But abusive people rarely heal us from the harm they caused. More often, they repeat the lesson.

So here is one practical rule I would like you to try:

When a man becomes abusive, the relationship is over. Not paused. Not under review. Not waiting for his sad childhood explanation. Over.

You do not need to keep returning to check whether fire is still hot.

Counselling not working for you so far does not mean you are beyond help. It may mean you have not yet found the right kind of help. For what you describe, I would look specifically for someone trauma-informed, ideally with experience in childhood domestic violence, coercive control and relationship patterns. General counselling can sometimes feel too light for a wound this old.

You might also find it easier to begin with something less face-to-face: online trauma therapy, a domestic violence support service, a group for adult children from abusive homes, or even structured reading and journalling while you search for the right person. The right support should not make you feel judged, rushed or “too much.”

You are not too much. You are injured.

And injured people do not need scolding. They need safety, repetition, patience, and new experiences of being treated gently until the nervous system slowly begins to believe that gentleness is not a trick.

Please do not try to solve your whole life at once. Start smaller.

Do not go back to men who have harmed you.
Do not explain away the first signs of cruelty.
Do not mistake intensity for intimacy.
Do not confuse being wanted with being safe.

And when you feel the pull to return to someone who has hurt you, try saying this to yourself:

This is not love calling me back. This is the wound looking for a familiar door.

You signed yourself Machucada — wounded.

Yes. You are.

But wounded is not ruined.

Wounded is not doomed.

Wounded is not unlovable.

It only means the next part of your life must be built more carefully than the first part was built for you.

And you are allowed to build it.

Yours with tenderness, and absolutely no tolerance for men who make love feel unsafe,

Joely

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Dear Joely: Should I Tell His Wife?

Dear Joely,

We had one of those workplace birthday things yesterday. You know the ones. Everyone gets called into the tea room, someone produces a Woolies or Coles cake in clear plastic — the sort that looks like it would still be technically edible in a month — and we all stand around singing like we haven’t got actual work to do.

Nobody really wants the cake. Everyone takes a piece anyway. Then half of it ends up in the bin later because, shock horror, shelf-stable supermarket icing is not actually a food group.

Anyway, I was already in a filthy mood because I’d barely slept the night before, so perhaps I wasn’t at my most generous.

There’s a woman at work — let’s call her Barbara — who has always got on my nerves a bit. She calls everyone “babe,” laughs too loudly at men who aren’t funny, and does that thing where she touches a man’s arm as if he’s just said something terribly clever when he’s only asked where the stapler is.

Normally I just roll my eyes internally and get on with life.

But yesterday, during the birthday cake hostage situation, I noticed something between Barbara and a married male colleague. I won’t name him, obviously, but let’s call him “Old Mate With A Wife.”

It was the looks. The stupid little smiles. The way they were trying so hard not to look like anything was going on that they looked exactly like something was going on.

Honestly, Joely, it was as obvious as a possum in a pantry.

The annoying thing is I know his wife. Not closely, but we go to the same yoga class and she seems like a perfectly decent person. Now I feel like I’m sitting on something.

I don’t especially like Barbara. I don’t feel any loyalty to him. And I fully admit I may have been fuelled by no sleep, terrible cake and general workplace irritation.

But if there is something going on, should I tell his wife?

Yours sincerely,

Namast-hey!!!

Dear Namast-hey!!!,

First of all, I would like to acknowledge the true villain of this piece: the workplace birthday cake.

There it sits, sweating gently in its plastic coffin, covered in icing the colour of printer toner’s breakdown. Everyone gathers around it pretending to be delighted, when in truth they are all thinking, I am an adult. I pay taxes. Why am I eating this?

So I understand the state you were in when Barbara began her mating display beside the urn.

Barbara sounds exhausting. Any woman who calls everyone “babe” while treating the office kitchenette like a cabaret stage is going to test the patience of the sleep-deprived. And yes, people conducting a new workplace flirtation often believe they are being wildly subtle when they are in fact lit up like a service station at midnight.

But should you tell his wife?

Not today.

I know. Unsatisfying. Joely has put the kettle on and hidden the matches.

The reason is this: you are currently angry, tired, cake-traumatised, and morally itchy. These are not ideal conditions for life-altering disclosure.

There is a big difference between acting from conscience and acting because Barbara has finally pushed your last nerve into traffic.

Ask yourself three questions.

First: what do I actually know?
Not suspect. Not smell in the air. Not “the way he looked at her near the paper plates.” Know.

Second: what is my relationship with his wife?
Are you close enough that silence would feel like betrayal, or are you yoga-adjacent acquaintances who once bonded over tight hamstrings and a shared hatred of crow pose?

Third: why do I want to tell her?
To protect her? To relieve your own discomfort? To punish him? To drop Barbara into a moral volcano and watch the plume?

Be honest. You don’t have to be pure, but you do have to know your motive.

If what you have is only a strong suspicion, do not march into yoga like the Angel of Adultery with a rolled-up mat. Watch. Wait. Say nothing yet.

If you later discover something concrete — not gossip, not vibes, but actual evidence — then the question changes. At that point, if this woman is genuinely in your life and you believe she is being deceived in a way that may harm her, a careful private conversation may be warranted.

But it would need to be calm, kind and clean. Not:

“Your husband and Barbara are at it.”

More like:

“I’m really sorry to say this, and I may be overstepping, but I’ve noticed something at work that made me uncomfortable. I don’t want to gossip, and I don’t want to hurt you, but I also didn’t feel right saying nothing.”

Then you give only what you know. No embroidery. No dramatic lighting. No Barbara character assassination, tempting though that may be.

For now, though, I prescribe sleep, distance, and not making lifelong decisions under the influence of Coles cake.

As for Barbara, let her keep calling people babe. Every office has one woman who treats married men like complimentary snacks. It is rarely as invisible as she thinks.

Do your yoga. Hold your tongue. Keep your eyes open.

And next time there’s a workplace birthday, bring your own biscuit.

Yours with clean hands and no office cake,

Joely

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Dear Joely: My Boyfriend Won’t Take Me To Barbados

Dear Joely,

My partner and I live together in London. We have been together for almost two years and, for the most part, life is good. Last year, we went on holiday together to Goa, which was really fun. We both had a great time.

It has always been a strong wish of mine to visit the Caribbean — in particular Barbados and perhaps one of the smaller islands. The problem is that my boyfriend won’t even consider going to the West Indies and the reason, to me, is basically a joke.

When I push the point, and it has come down to arguments a few times, it turns out to be based around a deep-seated jealousy of Black men and the perceived size of Black men’s bodies.

I find this completely and utterly ridiculous and have said so more than once. I have pointed out the obvious: that I would be there as his partner and not casting about for an island fling, but he will not be moved.

I mentioned this to a few of my friends and they were shocked. He doesn’t come across this way to them.

I am annoyed about this on a few levels. The first is his stubbornness on what I see as an absurd point. Then I think about his inability to see my point of view. And plus, his underlying insecurity is deeply unattractive to me.

We have a sex life that we both enjoy a lot. Why he’s acting this way is beyond me. Should I just go alone and hang the consequences?

Yours sincerely,

Exasperated

Dear Exasperated,

There are many respectable reasons a person might not want to visit the Caribbean.

They hate heat. They don’t like long-haul flights. They once had an unfortunate encounter with rum punch and have never emotionally recovered. They are saving money. They prefer mountains. They are frightened of boats, mosquitoes, or becoming the sort of person who says “island time” without irony.

Your boyfriend’s reason is not one of these.

Your boyfriend does not want to go to Barbados because, somewhere in the private locker room of his mind, he has decided that if you are placed within a certain radius of Black men, your fidelity, judgment and knickers will all fling themselves into the sea.

This is not a travel preference. It is insecurity wearing a racist hat.

You are right to find it unattractive. Insecurity can be tender when someone owns it honestly: I know this is my issue, I’m embarrassed by it, I’m trying to work through it. But insecurity becomes controlling when it expects the other person’s life to get smaller around it.

And that is the part I would take seriously.

Because the issue is not really Barbados. Barbados is just where the ridiculousness has chosen to wear sunglasses. The real question is: what happens when your desire for something harmless collides with his fear of being inadequate?

Does he get curious about himself?

Does he trust you?

Does he hear you?

Or does he dig in until your wish becomes the problem?

You say you have a good sex life. Lovely. But sexual compatibility does not cancel out sexual insecurity. A man can enjoy your body and still be terrified that it contains preferences, memories, curiosity, fantasy, autonomy, and a passport.

Should you go alone and hang the consequences?

Not as a stunt. Not as punishment. Not with a dramatic “fine, I’ll go without you then” flourish while booking flights at midnight with one eye twitching.

But should you go to the Caribbean if you genuinely want to go, and he refuses to join you for this reason?

Yes, quite possibly.

First, though, I’d have one calm, adult, deeply unsexy conversation. Not about anatomy. Not about stereotypes. Not about whether his fear is “valid.” About the relationship.

Try something like:

“I want to understand whether you’re asking me to give up a place I’ve always wanted to visit because you don’t trust me, because you feel insecure, or because you hold beliefs about Black men that I’m not comfortable with. Whichever it is, we need to talk honestly, because this is starting to change how I see you.”

Then stop talking.

Let him answer.

If he can say, I know this is irrational, I’m ashamed of it, and I don’t want it to limit you, you may have something to work with.

If he doubles down, sulks, accuses you, or turns your perfectly ordinary travel wish into evidence that you’re secretly planning a sexual field trip, then you have learned something important.

Go to Barbados. Take sunscreen. Take a good book. Take your own sweet self.

And while you’re there, ask yourself whether you want a partner who can stand beside you in the world — or one who needs you to avoid entire regions because his imagination has packed badly.

Warmly,

Joely

More dilemmas? Read more letters and replies in the Dear Joely advice column.

Dear Joely: I Said the Cruel Thing Out Loud at Dinner

Dear Joely,

I think I may have ruined a friendship over dinner.

A group of us were at a friend’s house on Saturday night — eight or nine people around the table, wine, food, everyone talking over each other in that way that feels fun at the time and unbearable when you remember it later.

One of my closest friends started talking about her ex again. They split up nearly a year ago, but he still comes up constantly. I have listened to hours of it. I really have tried to be kind. I know people don’t just stop hurting because their friends are bored of the subject.

But I’d had too much to drink, and when she started going over the same old ground, I said something like, “I don’t think you miss him anymore. I think you miss having him to talk about.”

The table went quiet.

She looked absolutely wounded. I tried to laugh it off, then tried to explain, which probably made it worse. The rest of the night carried on, but not really. You know when everyone is pretending things are normal and they absolutely aren’t?

I went home feeling embarrassed, but it wasn’t until 4:17 in the morning that the full horror hit me. I woke up wide awake thinking, What did I say? Why did I say it in front of everyone?

The awful thing is, I don’t know if I was completely wrong. Part of me does think she’s become attached to the drama of it. But I also know I was cruel. I could have said something privately, soberly, gently — or just kept my mouth shut.

She hasn’t replied to my message today.

Do I apologise properly, or will that just make it all bigger? And am I a terrible friend for being so tired of hearing about someone else’s heartbreak?

Still Cringing at 4:17am

Dear Still Cringing,

First of all, congratulations on discovering one of adulthood’s least glamorous truths: sometimes the thing that should have stayed inside your head comes out wearing a dinner-party voice.

Was it cruel? Yes, a bit.

Was it unforgivable? No.

Was it possibly true? Also yes, which is why it landed with such a thud.

That’s the trouble with drunken honesty. It often contains just enough truth to be dangerous, and nowhere near enough kindness to be useful. You didn’t say, “I’m worried you’re still hurting and I don’t know how to help.” You said, in effect, “I’m tired of your pain and I think you may be enjoying it.” At a table. In front of witnesses. With wine assisting the prosecution.

So yes, you owe her an apology.

Not a long, self-flagellating performance. Not a twenty-seven-message essay about your motives, your exhaustion, your guilt and the exact time your soul sat bolt upright in bed. She doesn’t need to manage your remorse as well as her humiliation.

Send something simple:

I’m really sorry for what I said at dinner. It was hurtful, and saying it in front of everyone made it worse. I had no right to embarrass you like that. I care about you, and I’m sorry.

That’s it. No “but.” No “I was just trying to say.” No “you have to admit.” No courtroom reconstruction.

The apology is for the way you said it, where you said it, and what it did to her.

Later — much later, if the friendship recovers and she invites real conversation — there may be room for the truth underneath it: that you love her, but you cannot be the permanent storage facility for one man’s emotional debris. Friends are allowed to have limits. Even kind friends. Even loyal friends. Even friends who have sat through every chapter of the breakup, including the director’s commentary.

But timing matters.

If someone is bleeding, you don’t start by saying, “To be fair, this carpet has suffered enough.”

For now, apologise cleanly. Give her space. Let her decide whether she wants to answer.

And no, you are not a terrible friend for being tired. You are a tired friend who said the tired part out loud, badly, after wine, under domestic lighting.

That is not a life sentence. It is a repair job.

Next time, if the same conversation starts circling the drain, try the sober version:

I love you, and I want to support you, but I think we might be stuck in the same loop. Can we talk about what would actually help you now?

Less dramatic than a dinner-table truth bomb, admittedly. But much kinder to the crockery.

With sympathy, and a glass of water before bed,

Joely

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Dear Joely: The Vixen Across The Road

Dear Joely,

Emotionally, I'm all over the place at the moment and I could really use your advice. I've been married for seven years to my husband whom I love very much. We're both 36. We're both Geminis. I work for a bank, he's a photographer. We live in a nice house, in a great area. We don't have kids yet, but I'd quite like to start trying soon.

Over the road from us lives a woman I would call a vixen. She's about 45 I'd say, and stunning. Lots of auburn hair and a very curvy body. Rumours in the neighbourhood are that she hosts certain get-togethers at her place. These involve couples and 'swapping'.

We're not into that. But the other day, when I got home from work, she was talking to my husband at our front door. When I asked him later what they were chatting about he avoided the question. I tried a few times, and it was like I'd never even asked. This made me cross.

I pushed the point again when we were in bed later. He eventually admitted that we'd been invited to a gathering at her place Saturday week. I got snippy. He shook his head and turned away from me. We've not mentioned it since.

I'm scared. I want to be the only one holding my husband's car keys.

Heckles Up

Dear Heckles Up,

First of all, let us be calm.

You have not yet lost your husband to the auburn enchantress across the road, nor has he been discovered dangling upside down from a chandelier with a stranger’s house key in his teeth. At present, all we know for certain is that your husband was approached at the front door by a woman with a reputation, and instead of answering his wife honestly, he chose the communication strategy of a nervous schoolboy.

That is annoying, yes. But it is not yet an orgy.

The real problem here is not the invitation itself. Adults are invited to all sorts of things in this life, from gallery openings to mild depravity. The problem is that your husband avoided the question. Then avoided it again. Then eventually coughed up the truth only after you pushed the point in bed, by which stage the whole thing had already acquired the atmosphere of a diplomatic incident.

That matters.

Because once a person starts acting evasive over something sexual, however hypothetical, the imagination does what imagination does best: puts on heels, pours a drink, and gallops straight into catastrophe.

You did, however, strike gold with this line:

“I want to be the only one holding my husband’s car keys.”

That is deranged in exactly the right way. I salute it.

But your real task is not to seize the keys. It is to seize the truth.

At a calm moment — not in bed, not in a huff, not while glaring through the curtains at the vixen’s hydrangeas — say this:

“The invitation is one thing. What bothered me was that you dodged me when I asked. I need honesty from you, even when the subject is awkward. So tell me plainly — what did you feel about it, and why didn’t you just say so?”

And then, crucially, listen to the answer.

It may be that he was embarrassed, flattered, intrigued, awkward, or simply trying to avoid upsetting you. None of those are ideal, but they are not all equally sinister. The point is to find out which one it was.

Also, a useful question to ask yourself: are you frightened that he wants to go, or frightened that some part of him was tempted by being asked? Those are not quite the same fear, and knowing which one is haunting you will help you speak more honestly.

If he tells you clearly that he has no interest and simply handled it badly, then good. You can both laugh grimly about the swingers over the road and move on with your lives.

If he becomes slippery, defensive, or tries to make you feel ridiculous for minding, then I would pay much closer attention. Not because the neighbours are wicked, but because evasion is often more revealing than temptation.

In short: don’t catastrophise, but don’t ignore the wobble either. Talk properly. Demand honesty. And remember that the woman across the road may be a vixen, but she is not the issue if your own front door is sound.

Yours, in defence of candour and proper key management,

Joely

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Dear Joely: Too Loud, Too Late, Too Attractive

Dear Joely,

I'm a 32 year old woman, living in an apartment block of eight units in Melbourne. I've been very happy here, except that about six months ago, the flat upstairs from me sold and a guy moved in that makes a lot of noise, often late into the night. He plays a sax and thinks nothing of practising until 1.30am. He also watches TV with the volume up really loud until all hours. It makes it hard for me to sleep.

To make it worse, I've seen the culprit collecting his mail a couple of times and he's actually really attractive, in a slightly wild sort of way. That aside, I feel like asking him to keep the noise down might annoy him and escalate the problem... and I really don't want that. On the other hand, my sleep and quality of life are being affected.

I'm having visions of becoming like Mr Heckles in Friends... letting my feelings be known with a broomstick.

I hope you can help.

Exasperated and Slightly Enamoured

Dear Exasperated and Slightly Enamoured,

Of course he’s attractive. These men are never a balding accountant in sensible loafers. They always arrive looking like they’ve been assembled by a casting director specifically to ruin your judgment.

Let me say this plainly: the fact that he is good-looking does not make him less of a pain in the arse.

Practising saxophone until 1.30am in an apartment block is not bohemian. It is antisocial. Watching television at full volume into the small hours is not free-spirited. It is selfish. He may be wild, but at present he is wild in the manner of a fox in a wheelie bin.

That said, your instinct is right. Going in blazing with a broomstick and a sleep-deprived speech about common decency is unlikely to produce a man who says, “My God, thank you for showing me the error of my ways.”

So. First move: calm, civil, direct.

Catch him in daylight, when neither of you is in your pyjamas and homicidal, and say something simple:

“Hi — I just wanted to mention that the sound travels quite a lot in the building, especially late at night. I’ve been hearing the sax and TV pretty clearly, and it’s been affecting my sleep. Would you mind keeping it down after about 10 or 11?”

That is not aggressive. That is normal adult communication. You are not asking him to stop existing. You are asking him not to turn your ceiling into Birdland at midnight.

If he is decent, that will be enough.

If he apologises and improves, excellent. You may continue finding him attractive from a safe emotional distance while also getting some REM sleep.

If he is vague, dismissive, or improves for three days and then resumes his late-night jazz odyssey, then you escalate in the least theatrical way possible: body corporate, building manager, strata, whatever version of adult bureaucracy your block runs on. Keep notes. Dates, times, type of noise. Boring, yes. Effective, also yes.

The key thing is this: do not let your slight enamourment convince you that you must be endlessly charming, understanding, or game about this. You do not owe a handsome nuisance extra tolerance. Quite the reverse. Beauty should be quiet after midnight.

And for the record, becoming Mr Heckles with a broomstick is a stage to avoid, not aspire to. Once you are striking the ceiling in a rage, the situation has already won.

Go and be polite. Then be firmer if needed. There is nothing unsexy about boundaries, and if he can’t cope with a neighbour asking for sleep, he is not nearly as interesting as his cheekbones suggest.

Yours, in defence of sleep and standards,

Joely

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Dear Joely: I’m Not a Drunk, But

Dear Joely,

I’m not entirely sure why I’m writing to you, except that a friend of mine’s wife likes your column, which I imagine is about as glowing a recommendation as one can expect for an advice page.

In any case, I have a question, or possibly a problem, depending on how dramatic we’re being.

I think my drinking may be getting a bit out of hand. I say “may” because I’m still employed, still paying my bills, and not waking up in a hedge in Stevenage with one shoe missing. I’m not pouring vodka on my cornflakes, and I haven’t yet become the sort of man people speak about more quietly over Christmas lunch. So I do have some perspective.

That said, I’m drinking more often than I mean to, and more than I intend to once I’ve started. I’ve also begun waking up feeling woolly, thick-headed, and vaguely disgusted with myself more often than I’d like. A woman I was seeing recently told me she never knew which version of me she was going to get after a few drinks — the funny one, the moody one, or the one who suddenly wants to start an argument over absolutely nothing. I didn’t enjoy hearing that. Mainly because I think she may have been right.

So my question is this: at what point does “I should probably get a grip” become “this is an actual problem”? And before you say “go to AA” or “talk to your doctor,” I am aware those options exist. I’m asking whether you think this sounds like a genuine issue, or just a man in his fifties noticing that the body is no longer as forgiving as it once was.

You may well be the wrong person to ask, but I seem to have run out of the right ones.

Signed,

Woolly in Watford

Dear Woolly,

First, thank you for that stirring opening vote of confidence. “A friend of mine’s wife likes your column” is exactly the sort of endorsement every woman dreams of.

Men do so love to arrive at vulnerability wearing a fake moustache.

Now that we’ve both survived that, yes — I do think this sounds like an actual problem.

Not because you are waking up shoeless in a municipal shrubbery, but because your drinking is no longer behaving as a harmless supporting character in your life. It is changing your moods, your mornings, your relationships, and your own opinion of yourself. That is enough. You do not need to wait until you are pouring vodka on your cornflakes or being discussed in lowered tones over the Christmas potatoes before you are allowed to take it seriously.

Men in particular do seem to love the idea that a thing only counts once it has become catastrophic. Until then, it is merely “having a few,” “blowing off steam,” or “one of those patches.” This is often very convenient for them, and rarely for the people around them.

The woman who told you she never knew which version of you she was going to get did you a favour. Not a pleasant one, admittedly, but a favour all the same. If alcohol is making you unreliable to yourself and unpredictable to others, then I would stop fussing over whether the word “problem” feels too dramatic and begin with the plainer truth that something is not going well.

And yes, since you’ve pre-emptively rolled your eyes at the obvious advice, I’m afraid I’m going to be boring and sensible anyway. Start keeping proper count of how much you drink and when. Not your charming estimates — the real number. Then speak to your doctor, or a proper alcohol support service, or both. There is no medal for trying to out-stubborn a habit that is already beginning to cost you pieces of your life.

You ask whether this is a genuine issue or simply the body becoming less forgiving. I would suggest that if the body, your conscience, and at least one exasperated woman are all trying to tell you something at once, it may be worth listening.

And for the record, advice columns are not magic. They are simply one of the places people end up when denial has started springing a leak.

Yours, surprisingly sensibly,

Joely

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Dear Joely: An Inconvenient Crush

Dear Joely,

I am a woman in my late fifties and, until recently, believed myself to be beyond the age of behaving like a sixth-former with a biro and a pulse. Then I developed a crush.

It is not on a film star, which would at least be private and convenient. It is on a man I know in real life. He is charming, bright, entirely age-appropriate, and, maddeningly, just attentive enough to keep me flustered without doing anything so obvious that I can call the whole thing to heel.

Nothing has happened. He has not declared himself. I have not flung myself across a table. We are simply in that intolerable territory where eye contact begins to feel like an event and one finds oneself thinking far too hard about what to wear to somewhere that didn’t matter at all before he might be there.

Part of me feels thrilled to be capable of this sort of fizz at all. Another part feels faintly humiliated. I am too old, surely, to be mooning over a man like a girl in a ponytail. And yet I also resent the idea that desire should have an expiry date, as though one is meant to become a tasteful lampshade after a certain birthday.

So my question is this: should I enjoy the feeling for what it is and let it pass, or is there ever a dignified way to do something with a crush at my age?

Signed,

Unexpectedly Flustered

Dear Flustered,

First, let us bury the idea that desire is only attractive in the young. That is nonsense invented by people who prefer women to become decorative once they’ve learned a few things.

A crush in later life is not pathetic. It is inconvenient, certainly. Occasionally ridiculous. But also rather cheering. It reminds you that the shutters are not up, the blood still circulates, and your powers of anticipation have not been pensioned off to sit in a cardie by the fire.

The trouble with a crush is not the feeling itself. The trouble is what the feeling tempts you to do. It can turn an intelligent woman into an amateur codebreaker, forever analysing pauses, glances, and whether a man said “see you soon” with intent or merely manners.

So enjoy the quickening, by all means. Stand in front of the mirror a little longer. Feel your pulse misbehave. There are worse things. But do not build a cathedral out of crumbs. If he is interested, let him become clearer in ways that would be visible even to a woman who was not wearing your particular perfume and hoping for signs.

And if an opening genuinely presents itself, there is nothing undignified about warmth, wit, or a little well-judged boldness. The only thing I would avoid is tipping a whole bucket of fantasy over a situation that may yet amount to no more than pleasing chemistry and a decent jawline.

You are not too old for this. You are simply old enough to know the difference between delight and self-abandonment. Try to keep the first and avoid the second.

Yours, with eyebrows raised,

Joely

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Dear Joely: Exit Group?

Dear Joely,

I’ve been added to a school WhatsApp group and I already hate it.

I know it’s meant to be useful, and sometimes it is, but most of the time it’s just endless messages about things that don’t seem to require that many messages. Every day there’s somebody asking something that has already been answered, or reminding everyone about something, or sending a stream of updates about snacks, costumes, pick-up times, forms, or who’s bringing what.

What gets me is that I can’t tell whether I’m being unreasonable or whether everyone else is just pretending this is normal. Some of the women in it seem to live there. They’re constantly replying, offering to do things, thanking each other, sending little kisses at the end of every message, and somehow making quite ordinary school admin feel like a full-time emotional ecosystem. I find it exhausting.

There’s also a certain tone in there that gets under my skin. It’s all very friendly on the surface, but I can never quite shake the feeling that there’s competition and judgement bubbling away underneath. I don’t want to be rude, and I don’t want to look unfriendly, but I also don’t want to spend my life reading forty-three messages about a missing drink bottle.

Is it acceptable to mute it, ignore most of it, or even leave altogether, or is that social suicide?

Signed,

One Ping from Murder

Dear One Ping,

The first thing I want you to know is that you are not oversensitive. You are having an entirely normal reaction to being trapped in a digital village square with no closing time.

WhatsApp groups of this sort are a very modern species of suffering. They begin in usefulness and end in low-grade occupation. A quick note about sports day becomes a hundred and forty-seven messages, three theories, one volunteer spreadsheet, and an undercurrent of feminine territorial warfare thinly disguised as helpfulness.

You are not obliged to enjoy this simply because it involves children and snack-sized administrative duties. Nor are you required to mistake access for intimacy. These groups create the illusion that because people can reach you instantly, they are therefore entitled to do so constantly. They are not.

Now, as to what to do. I would not dramatically leave unless you are genuinely prepared to be talked about by women in activewear for a fortnight. The elegant answer is almost always the less theatrical one. Mute the group. Archive it if necessary. Turn off previews. Remove it from the front of your mind and let the urgent things surface by other means, as truly urgent things usually do.

And if someone asks why you are a little quiet, you may say, perfectly pleasantly, that you are trying to spend less time on your phone. This has the additional advantage of sounding virtuous while being entirely self-protective.

What you must not do is get drawn into the false morality of constant responsiveness. There is a particular kind of social nonsense that thrives on women feeling they must always appear agreeable, available, and faintly delighted to help. It is a racket. Step outside it where you can.

You do not need to surrender your peace over a visor, a raffle roster, or twelve messages about whether Friday is mufti. Keep your manners, keep your distance, and keep the group on mute.

Yours, on mute,

Joely

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Dear Joely: Mixed Signals

Dear Joely,

I’ve been seeing a man for six months. He can be thoughtful, funny, and incredibly attentive when we’re together, but in between he goes oddly vague. Sometimes he texts constantly for days, then disappears into silence and resurfaces as though nothing has happened. When I ask where I stand, he says he’s “confused” and doesn’t want to rush things. I am old enough to know better, but apparently not old enough to stop checking my phone like a woman awaiting news from the front. He says he cares about me. I think he probably does. I’m just no longer sure that caring is the same thing as showing up. Am I being impatient, or am I volunteering for my own heartbreak?

Signed,

Still Waiting in Wangaratta

Dear Still Waiting,

There are many humiliations in life. One of the more avoidable is mistaking inconsistency for depth.

A man who wants you is not usually this confusing for this long. He may indeed be confused, but confusion can be surprisingly comfortable when someone else is doing all the waiting. It allows him warmth without responsibility, intimacy without decision, and your hope without the inconvenience of your standards.

You are not asking for too much. You are asking for coherence. There is a difference.

The trouble is not that he disappears now and then. The trouble is that each disappearance is followed by just enough tenderness to keep you interpreting the gaps as mystery rather than information. But gaps are information. Vagueness is information. “I don’t want to rush things” after six months is information wearing a soft hat.

If you want to give this one last, dignified chance, do it plainly. Tell him you’re no longer available for half-presence and see whether he steps forward or blurs again. Then believe what happens next.

Love may be complicated. Interest is usually not.

Yours, but not surprised,

Joely

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