Gossip can be a bitch. To keep, that is. I was told a great bit of scandal the other day. A big fat juicy tidbit about someone in the office. I was genuinely shocked at what I heard.

And sworn to secrecy.

Each time the tittle tattle drifts into my conscience, my inner shockometre peaks.

Oddly, the scandal came from someone I'm not particularly close to. And even more oddly this airing of dirty laundry has sort of made my Deep Throat and I a little closer, created a sense of unity; a bond between us, I'm ashamed to admit.

Gossiping and bitching. My well-placed sources say there's a difference.

Bitching is saying something negative about something or someone; backbiting if you like.

Gossiping is relaying information, good or bad. But both, let's face it, can be toxic.

Oscar Wilde said there's only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that's not being talked about.

What do you say though if you overhear friends or colleagues cutting the back off you with lip-smacking relish? "I'm sorry -- did my back hurt your knife?"

Bette Davis famously recalled that when a man gives his opinion, he's a man. When a woman gives her opinion, she's a bitch.

My male friends and colleagues appear to have the propensity for character assassination engrained in their DNA just as much as their female counterparts.

Nobody's immune, it seems. Brian Cowen was caught off mic in the Dail calling a retailing group 'those fu**kers'.

Bill Cullen bitches about the Apprentices. (Entirely understandable. There's a whiff of day release from most of them). They bitch about each other.

Prince Charles was caught decrying the press pack. "These bloody people. I can't bear that man. I mean, he's so awful, he really is," he said.

When was the last time anyone said anything less than uber bitchy about a banker.

At least Vincent Browne says it to their faces.

It's good to talk. Just maybe not behind someone's back. And if rumour mongering, two-faced backstabbing and mud-slinging abound about yourself, remember the sage advice from Shakespeare's Richard III...

If you can't get rid of the skeleton in your closet -- you'd best teach it to dance.

Who needs Grumpy Old Men? I'm flying the flag for all whinging young women

There's a TV series called Grumpy Old Men. Men 'of a certain age' get to vent. A grumpy thirtysomething woman will now list, in no particular order, life's minor irritants.

Women who cite 'convenience' as the reason they change their name after they get married. How is this more convenient? It takes time, paperwork and expense. Question. Why didn't he take yours? For convenience.

Stickers on the soles of shoes. Nothing quite as unattractive as a bar code on view as you lope along. Make friends with white spirits and some elbow grease.

The word 'posh'. You are not a peasant. Saying something or someone is 'posh' is like admitting you're not quite good enough. You are plenty good enough.

Bad hair days. Recently mine seems to have its own postal code.

Lighting in hotel rooms. Switch one off beside your bed and one flicks on near the door. Hop out of the bed to flick that off and another illuminates the room.

A restaurant companion trying to bond with the waiter. As a former waitress, asking if 'your own fair hand' cooked the special is cringe.

Next week, all of life's serendipitous positives will be acknowledged. If the God damn broadband would work.

Why Chelsy tops league of the ladies in waiting

The on-off courtship of Chelsy Davy and Price Harry appears to be right back on again after a cosy dinner a deux.

Damn that girl's got sass. If anyone can resuscitate the mothballed institution that is the Royals, my money's on uber cool Ms Davy.

Chelsy may be aristocratic and well bred but she screams attitude. She has that slightly brazen appeal -- damaged, bleached hair, a few broken fake nails and a grunginess that's not quite polite society. Likes a drink, her pals say. Decode -- parties her ass off; matches the boys drink for drink. Smokes.

Whiff

Chelsy has the makings of a Sienna-style, style icon -- more over-the-knee boots, less twin set and pearls. I imagine debate surrounding her 'suitability' as a princess makes her yank up her indecently short skirts even further.

If Kate Middleton has the whiff of 'I'd love to bag a Royal' about her, Chelsy's saying 'Ladylike? I'm off to do a shot at the bar.' Poor Kate must feel like a square. Poor Kate will, let's face it, be forever 'poor Kate'.

Chelsy (even her name's a bit, well, less than regal) may be the first woman who ever gave one of those silver-spooned toffs his marching papers.

If he has come crawling back, this Princess-in-waiting may tell her Majesty et al, that she and her relationship come before any ideals of 'what's expected' in the pedigree world of the Windsors. Classy or brassy? Can someone pass the fake tan ... .

- Colette Fitzpatrick