I've had a reasonable day on the computer, pounding away on Chapter One *yes, I'm still on Chapter One. Enough: I know!*. My treat of the day - one hot bath, one mug of tea, one Observer Woman magazine.

'Oooh, Julie Birchill on Madonna at 50, that'll be interesting,' I thought. Sadly, it wasn't; it was just, mostly, a bit sad.

Though I did nearly lose a mouthful of tea when Birchill informed us if she worked out for four hours a day she would look better than Madonna. *And I'm still smirking at that one*. But on the whole it largely read like a bitchfest with no substance beyond the author's mild irritation that as Madonna didn't read magazines and therefore wouldn't get to see how great a job Birchill clearly thought she'd made of reducing her to a scratching post.

There has been a long queue of women writers shouting for Madonna to hang up her leotards this week. As if turning 50 means every sexual bone should fall from her body *presumably to make way for osteoporosis*. Much finger-wagging and insinuations that she should swap it for an apron and retire gracelessly to Madge mansions.

If Madonna wants to work out till she's blue in the face, let her. If she wants to paint herself pink and parade naked across the stage at Wembley, does it matter? No one goes around poking the finger at Iggy Pop and asking him when he's going to put his shirt on, do they?

Maybe it isn't the women writers we should be chastising, I mean poor-show that it might be to kick your sisters in the teeth, let's remember who owns those newspapers and magazines. Who is paying the wages? Who is shaping the news/soft news agendas? Big clue... it isn't the ladies.

Maybe the best retaliation is to vote with my purse, take a leaf out of Madonna's book and not buy into the nonsense. New bath-time reading matter for me, I think. Who would of thought the Observer would wind up in the sin-bin? Dearie me, the times we live in.