It's official, I've tried to cover it up for years, making sure no one ever spots me gazing into puddles, mirrors and shop windows, while attempting to avoid falling into the cold and empty depths of my pathetic little ego. And I'm not alone.
According to an expert in the Guardian, I'm one of many millions of sad bastards indulging myself in writing meaningless twaddle - which, incidentially, no one reads - who is sacrificing valuable time when she could be out and about doing community service or forging valuable relationships. Who can argue when faced with the truth? What can I say in my own defence?