Marriage, divorce and the passionate loathing that's so close to love That's because it's all about the principle, not the Debenhams undersheet. Or, if not about the principle, then about revenge or spite or a host of other shades of sadness and madness and anger. A man is so enraged that his soon-to-be ex walked out with the much-loved family frying pan, he takes her engagement ring. A couple who jointly own a stud stallion instruct their lawyers to wrangle over the equitable division of its sperm. Yes, from one perspective it's ludicrous and venal. But from another it's an index of the sheer dimensions of emotion involved; the flipside of the fury is hurt. Because marriage matters. Generally speaking, when two people exchange their in-sickness-and-in health vows, they mean it. In this day and age, when there is no stigma attached to being an unmarried couple, choosing to walk down the aisle together is, arguably, a more significant statement of public intent than it was for previous generations. Friends of mine who have divorced, by mutual consent, still express regret that their marriage failed - their word, not mine, for they do consider it a failure. They have both moved on and met new partners, started new families and share custody of their children in a civilised fashion. But neither will marry again; they are both too scarred. No one, with the possible exception of Sinéad O'Connor (18 days) and Britney Spears (55 hours), takes marriage and divorce lightly. Nor are celebrities immune; German supermodel Heidi Klum has spoken of her grief at the end of her six-year marriage to singer Seal. Demi Moore looks gaunt and fragile in the wake of her separation from Ashton Kutcher, again after six years. The disappointment and sense of betrayal that often accompany the break up of a marriage, can be overwhelming. The slapstick tragedy that was The War of the Roses, the 1989 film starring Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner, offered an unsentimental glimpse into the abyss. Perhaps couples should be compelled to watch it before instigating divorce proceedings in an effort to avert their mutual assured destruction. Marriages end. But only some marriages end in such a pyrotechnical blaze of emotion. It would be trite to point out that the passion displayed by those couples slugging it out over posh condiments and vacuum cleaners indicates that the spark between them is far from dead. Trite, but not necessarily untrue. Does telly really make for tubbies? Bring out your plasma flatscreens! Hand over that sneaky cache of Shaun the Sheep DVDs. Bury that Freeview portable in quick-setting concrete or may hellfire and brimstone rain upon on your Ofsted-registered childcare facility! Nurseries have had a rap across the knuckles for letting toddlers watch television when they should be eating the contents of the sandbox and hitting each other with responsibly sourced wooden bricks. Too much TV is apparently bad for youngsters" health, leading to the scourge of chubby children. It's also bad for Mummy's blood pressure to even countenance the possibility that her disposable income is being frittered on wall-to-wall Waybuloos and keeping Mr Tumble in Baftas. The cost of a kindergarten place means it's only reasonable to expect heirs and spares to be at it all day; painting, building, showing, telling, learning the flute and, of course, plenty of Mandarin (the language not the oranges). Parents have also been warned to take TV sets out of young children's bedrooms. Quite right. Television is Mummy's favourite little helper. It soothes fretful infants, entertains bored rugrats and enables her to get on with cooking supper and hanging out the washing and running a bath and wiping banana off the furniture. Turning it on is the ultimate treat. Switching it off, the ultimate sanction. But to be effective, the magical world of CBeebies must remain in her grasp - to giveth and taketh away as she sees fit. And, frankly anyone who is so stupid as to install a Toshiba at the end of the kids" bunk beds deserves to face the consequences and have their precious telly taken into care. Thanks for the Scandi-gloom, folks. Glad to know it makes you happy How irritating to learn that Scandinavians now top the world happiness league, and not just because a beer in Kastrup costs a miserable seven quid. No, what really galls is that they have achieved their state of Zen by exporting all their Munchian angst to the rest of us. Thanks to Wallander, The Killing, Stieg Larsson and Jo Nesbo, we are now the ones shrouded in Scandi-gloom. As we lie abed at night in fear of murderous politicians, twisted serial killers and child-slayers, the denizens of Denmark slumber untroubled in their chunky-knit sweaters. But perhaps if we adopted the same dump-and-dash style of national therapy, we might cheer up, too? So let's package up and post off Nick Clegg and Tulisa and bankers and celebrity fitness DVDs and youths with their underpants on show and... there now, I feel chirpier already. The comforts of the northern cold As Britain's kiss-me-quick resorts scrap over who deserves the coveted "Most Sunshine" crown, it's far too nippy to hang around in my mohair sarong waiting for the result. Instead, I am off on a British break to where oxygen facials are a speciality and I'm guaranteed (oh yes) to catch some Easter rays. Where am I off to? Think North. No, further north than that. Up a bit. Up a bit more. Stop! Down a bit or you'll drown me. Yes, John o'Groats. You heard. Free exfoliation on the wind-whipped clifftop. And as for the rays? Well, I'm hoping it won't just be rays; there's a high chance of dolphins and whales, too.