He who said that the only thing constant is change, wasn’t a ‘he’ at all. It was definitely a she.

When the venerable management guru par excellence, Shiv Khera, conducts his seminars, I am sure he clears up every possible cloud looming over positivity save for the one about waging a war against a

You can tell that this article is being penned by a male when it uses the adjective ‘fine art’ to qualify the act of ‘procrastination’.

Someone once said that women are like the ocean: calm on the surface but fathoms deep. I’m sure they were talking about the Pacific.

Recently I was bestowed with a very special honour. A fellow scribe, but one with actual talent, unlike me, confessed to being part of a small but sure group who actually foster feelings negative towards me. I happened to be in their line of favourite past time activity since shoes and gossip: Hating. Women love to hate. Three billion of my brethren, more if you count those slain and buried, will testify that the only thing that can upset a woman more than having someone to love is not having someone to hate.

Women, you don’t believe in love. For all we know Shakespeare wrote Romeo and Juliet for men who were tired of knocking back pints at the tavern and discussing whatever it was that preceded Champions League as a form of sport.

If you have never single-handedly lifted 50 kilos in either hand and walked a mile, if you haven’t ever had an irrepressible desire to take part in the Ironman or the strongest-man-in-the-world compet

The thing about summers is that it is hot. So scorching hot that I find myself stating the obvious only too frequently.

The ultimate unfairness in the world is the unfair stature that us men have been bequeathed with.

Women are a curious lot and I find it almost fascinating to ponder that there exist, down to this day, so few novels about women detectives.