Romance is a closed book: now we're all losers in love I'm not averse to the occasional foray into Scandi-crime and I devoured the late Stieg Larsson's curtailed oeuvre with relish. But that's because his anti-heroine was so fascinating and generally speaking, I do think a monochrome preoccupation with goodies and baddies doesn't result in many surprising epiphanies or revealing insights into the kaleidoscopic human spirit. Some readers may feel more comfortable with the certainties of good-versus-evil-and-always-triumphs-sometimes-more-cleverly-than-at-other-times, but life's not like that, and without, wishing to be a softie, I believe the complex contours of the human heart offer much more to explore than do the mean streets of Manhattan. We recently learnt that sex is the driver that impels men into war. Its regular bedfellow, love, in all its baffling, exasperating, chest-beating polymorphic variations, is far more fascinating - and challenging - than, at the risk of oversimplification, a phallocentric whodunnit, thrusting relentlessly towards a reassuring climax and commeupance. Give me a big fat Phillipa Gregory every time, as much about social mores and Plantaganet politics as an excursion into the soul. Even Facebook, the most powerful social networking site on the planet, which this week launched a multi-billion stock and awe flotation was, in part, set up as a dating forum, so Harvard nerds could find a mate. A great many people are now extremely rich, but am I wrong in wistfully thinking I'd much rather the geeks got the girls than a cheque for however many zeros? Of course, the geek's geek himself, Mark Zuckerberg now has both, but at the outset his was a search for love not lucre. It's that fundamental need to love and be loved that motivates us as a species, so why would we rather be seen leafing through a James Patterson than a well-crafted Marian Keyes? Part of the phenomenal success of David Nicholls's One Day, was that it lured both men and women - and surprised them. It was a romance yes, but an odd one, a comic one, a romance shot through with strong sentiment, but never sentimentality. Don't get me wrong, crime fiction is easily devoured and digested, and is decidedly more-ish, so at least we are still borrowing books from our beleaguered libraries. An appetite for crime makes readers hunger for the next fix. But feasting on felony and felony alone is not the healthiest diet and I would aver that, every so often, the brain needs a little food for thought. I wish the neighbours would just keep their noises to themselves Turn that racket down! I can't HEAR - tinkle, tinkle - MYSELF - Man! I Feel Like a Woman! - THINK, much less find a shoe to bang against the partition wall. There, that's better. Or it would be, if it weren't for the chap on the other side doing a spot of spontaneous DIY. Well, it is only 11pm. An epidemic of unneighbourliness is sweeping the nation, with Shania Twain making eardrums bleed in Newcastle and garden wind chimes prompting a bitter feud in east London. Hell may be other people, but as long as they keep themselves to themselves even a misanthrope like Sartre can hardly complain. A row over New Age wind chimes or country music crossover sounds quite amusing. Unless you're the chump living next door who has to call the council. And what would you do if that nice couple at number 34 start trying for a baby? Every night. There's currently a thread on just such a thorny issue on Mumsnet, where normally doughty mothers are all at sea and flailing over how to get their libidinous neighbours to, if not desist entirely, then at least put a halt to all the hollering. For what it's worth, I reckon a classic combination of tranquil wind chimes and earsplitting Shania Twain ought to dampen the sound - and their ardour - very nicely. All the fun of the West End farce Whoops vicar, there go my trousers! Exeunt stage left, pursued by a French maid. Farce - albeit of a more sophisticated nature - is enjoying a renaissance in the West End, providing the perfect pick-me-up during the belated onslaught of winter. A glittering new production of Michael Frayn's Noises Off has all but sold out at the Old Vic, following, as it does, the acrobatic, breakneck backstage antics of a touring theatre company. Fast and physical, sidesplitting laughs relentless as an ack-ack gun, a show such as this serves as a reminder of the visceral impact of theatre. And it's not just about the visual and verbal gags. The pejorative term "farcical" is overused these days, but in its purest form, farce is, as John Mortimer once observed, "tragedy played at a thousand revolutions per minute."