Maxxing is selfish, desperately try-hard and often futile. Instead of pushing your endeavours to the limit, minning means doing them less, if at all

Public service announcement: fellow citizens, we have maxxmaxxinged. It has been close for a while, but now we have gone over the edge – reached, and passed, maximum maxxing. The tipping point was a week in which we saw reports of Namemaxxing. If you can’t decide between two baby names, pick them both. Suggestions included blending Maeve and Avery to create Mavery, or Leo and Giovanni to make Leovanni – Futupid. Then Dictionary.com revealed its word of the year and, yes, you guessed it: maxxing. It’s fully exhausting, in every way, but mainly in that -maxx has been fully exhausted. For the good of us all, 2027 has to be the year of minning. (The second “n” is important, otherwise pits may be deluged.)

Maxxing is selfish, desperately try-hard and often futile – surely nobody who ever set out to funmaxx achieved it (see: New Year’s Eve), not even Dua Lipa. Minning is much more noble: it’s about making the world, rather than only yourself, better. Instead of pushing your endeavours to the limit, it means doing them less, if at all.

I have been asking friends and family this question all week. The answers reveal precisely how they deal with fear

Perhaps, almost seven years later, there are aspects of the Covid lockdown some are nostalgic about, but it’s doubtful the great loo-roll hoarding of 2020 is one of them. And yet, here we appear to be again. Well, nearly.

Some shops sold out of baked beans and water this week, after government advice that we should stockpile supplies to prepare for emergencies “ranging from severe weather to cyber-attacks”. We must Be Ready – which is the name of the campaign that has launched. Security minister Dan Jarvis said that “those who can follow this advice should follow this advice”.

The Hollywood actor revealed he once read two-decades’ worth of pans in one fell swoop, during two days in the desert. It’s the kind of preposterous self-flagellation we can all learn from and enjoy

To assume makes an ass out of you and me, but as sweeping generalisations go, this seems fairly uncontroversial: nobody likes hearing themselves being criticised. Obviously there are exceptions to the rule – no kink shaming here – but most people aren’t fans.

Which is why a recent admission from Matthew McConaughey is unusual. The Hollywood actor revealed that he once spent two days in the desert reading 20 years’ worth of negative reviews about himself.

Think back to those terrible flatshares in your 20s. Cohabiting with friends can seem like a dream, but the reality is sometimes less Golden Girls – more Young Ones

In most female friendships between women with male partners, the following occurs, sometimes regularly. It usually happens after one of them has delivered a passionate rant – or if not technically a rant, then certainly rant-adjacent. The women’s eyes lock, the instinctive understanding between the two of them undeniable, and then the one who has been complaining about her partner will say: “I wish I could just live with you instead.” If there are more than two women present, the conversation may move on to communes. There are inevitably wistful sighs.

That fantasy could become a reality. “Positive news” platform Upworthy has explored the phenomenon of gen X and boomer women playing the long game and pulling a Golden Girls: rather than living alone, post widowhood or divorce, they are moving in together.

His good-natured camaraderie on The Traitors has turned him into a viral heartthrob. What these Johnny Come Latelys don’t realise is that he’s always been a man for our times

It’s hard not to wonder how James Acaster feels at the moment. On the one hand, everybody suddenly fancies him, which must be flattering. On the other, all the language around the phenomenon is stuff like “unlikely”, “unexpected” and “bizarre crush”, which is presumably … less so. But there’s no denying that he is now a viral heartthrob, which sounds like something that requires urgent medical attention, but isn’t. After each episode of The Celebrity Traitors, social media is flooded with slow-motion edits and thirst-trap clips of Acaster, including one of him in the castle set to Ginuwine’s Pony that has received more than 500,000 views and counting. Vogue declared that his “specifically east London-y wardrobe has captured the hearts and minds of millennial women countrywide”, and anointed him its “new internet boyfriend”.

For longtime Acaster admirers, loyal listeners to the Off Menu podcast who rooted for him on the seventh series of Taskmaster, this is bittersweet. The smug plus side: we were right all along. The lemony minus: now we have to share him. It’s like those people who saw Oasis in a tiny working-man’s club when they didn’t have a record deal. I fancied Acaster long before this crowd of Johnny Come Latelys at the BBC TV equivalent of Knebworth.

A life coach has helpfully pointed out that we’re all chief executives of our own existence. So let’s start enjoying the perks

To-do lists are done, apparently: the latest tactic to motivate and galvanise yourself is a “CEO hour”. The rationale for this method, courtesy of career and life coach Eva Katzler, is that you are the chief executive officer of your own existence, so you should routinely sit down and check in, just as they do in other businesses, reflecting on the past week and setting intentions for the next. Regularly having a formal meeting with yourself may be the kind of behaviour that makes people start worrying about you, particularly if you power dress for the occasion, but at least you can be sure you’ll get all the best biscuits.

Katzler is against the to-do list because she sees it as “our fast track to feeling like we’re completely out of control, because we can never get through it. When you never get that sense of achievement, what you’re left with is a feeling of failure.”

On Rivet, volunteers get to choose who they think are the most suitable suitors. For an interfering busybody like me, this is a match made in heaven

Sometimes it’s extremely hard to mind your own business. However, we all know that ideally we should, and most of us give it a bloody good go. So when the universe rewards us with an opportunity to do the opposite, it must be grabbed with both hands and cherished like the precious gift it is.

New dating app Rivet lets a random group of volunteers pick users’ matches, AKA gives interfering busybodies who think they know best free rein over strangers’ love lives. I mean, where do I sign up? This is the chance frustrated matchmakers like me have been waiting for, once their supply of single friends has been exhausted (in both senses).

While I suspect my husband and some of my friends would make excellent Traitors, my poker face is worse than Richard E Grant’s – as I learned when I played the game

Yes, yes, it’s achieved the impossible: brought back watercooler terrestrial TV, united the UK’s viewing habits, healed our divided nation. But more importantly, The Celebrity Traitors has given us a lens through which to look at life. Currently, the only conversation worth having is what you think you, whoever you’re talking to, and all your friends and family members would be like as contestants on the show. It’s a quick-smart way to evaluate society, a new shorthand. Describe a stranger as having “Faithful energy” and there are surely about two humans on these islands who wouldn’t understand exactly what you mean.

Can you handle the truth, though? It was a poignant moment on my journey of self-acceptance when I was forced to acknowledge that I’d be terrible as both a Traitor and a Faithful. However, confronted with most of the people who know me best being absolutely certain, laughing through tears at the idea of any other outcome, there was no getting away from it. The accusation was levelled that I would jump out of my skin and squeal if my shoulder was touched at the initial roundtable, meaning my Traitorhood would be over before it had begun, which was futile to deny. I suggested I might try to make the squeal seem like a double bluff – which was met with further amusement. Apparently my poker face is even less convincing than I thought. I’d make Richard E Grant look like a slick covert operator.

Sometimes a child needs to say ‘I’m having a horrible time!’ without everyone around them realising. Ukulele!

The second you have a baby, people begin offering you unsolicited advice. Friends, acquaintances and – most fun of all – complete strangers you definitely didn’t ask will inform you that your child isn’t dressed warmly enough, or that you have to enjoy every moment. I once had the latter while my two-month-old was spraying me with liquids from both ends, which the wise sage had apparently not noticed.

In the sea of interfering nonsense is the odd genuinely useful life raft, though, such as one I’ve just learned for dealing with the tween period I’m now navigating. Your child needs not a coat, but a codeword.

We hit it off, agreed to meet and suddenly we’re bosom buddies. But oh, the stress of always putting myself in the best possible light

I’ve got a new friend. I’m well aware I sound like a five-year-old reporting that, and this is exactly the point: it turns out making friends as an adult is absolutely excruciating. I like this person so much, and have found the whole business of welcoming someone into my fold quite life-affirming, but it’s almost not worth it for the amount of anxiety it has provoked. This is the closest to dating that boring old smug marrieds like me get, and I have never questioned my every thought, action and WhatsApp message more. Thank God she has her blue ticks on, or I’d probably be having sleepless nights.

I met her, just like the romcoms promise, when I’d stopped looking. Like, stopped decades ago. My roster was full; I didn’t have time to hang out with the friends I already had, let alone complicating matters by adding another to the mix. It happened unexpectedly, accidentally, in a waiting room for a kids’ activity – a conversation started over my head about a celebrity, and she made an off-the-cuff, funny, sweary comment. It was love at first slight.

Until now I’d never realised how much work is involved in sorting out a parent’s affairs, and how much heartbreak

In all the talk of the five stages of grief, I don’t recall one of them being spending hours on hold to energy suppliers. Perhaps I misunderstood, though, and that’s entirely what they’re about. This call won’t take long (denial); aargh, are they ever going to answer? (anger); if I hang on for five minutes more, they’ll definitely pick up (bargaining); they are never, ever going to pick up (depression); and I live on hold now – this is my life (acceptance).

You hear the term “sadmin” bandied about, you understand there’s paperwork to do after somebody dies – but until it’s you who has to do it, you don’t realise how much, what it entails or how encompassing it is. My mum’s death has basically become my full-time job. The hours are terrible, the pay is worse and the promotion prospects sobering, to say the least.

Phil Heckels has turned his awful pet portraits into a full-time job. As a blueprint for success, embracing your lack of talent has obvious appeal

What do you get if you cross a complete lack of artistic talent with making lemonade out of life’s lemons? Phil Heckels, that’s what – or, rather, who. The former estate agent from West Sussex has turned being bad at drawing animals into a full-time job after posting a hilariously terrible portrait of his dog on social media. Friends started asking him to do awful pictures of their pets, word spread, and he’s now received more than 100,000 requests. His rules are that he only sees the photos immediately before he picks up his pen, he never restarts a drawing, and he doesn’t spend longer than 10 minutes on a creation. He also refuses to charge for his artworks – suggesting charity donations instead – but makes money through merchandise and books.

“I do get criticism sometimes that the portraits are getting too good,” Heckels said recently. “But people have been saying that since about my 12th portrait. You never have to wait too long for a real stinker to appear, though.”

My hosting persona is an edgier version of Manuel from Fawlty Towers. Invite me to yours, however, and I am a nonstop delight

My epiphany came between the starter and the main. At a friend’s place for dinner, I sat in awe as she put on a kind of magic show – the first course plates were cleared, but I never noticed her doing it. Delicious food was repeatedly produced with no lengthy disappearing act preceding it, no fuss, no panic. The candles on the table flickered invitingly, the background music was unobtrusive but atmospheric, the wine and chat flowed effortlessly. If I had later discovered she secretly had a full staff – planning, preparing, cooking, cleaning – it would have made perfect sense. But no, it was all her. And then I realised, the world is divided into people who are hosts, and people who are guests. You’re either one, or the other – nobody is both, apart from maybe the Duchess of Sussex. If you aren’t sure which camp you fall into, ask someone close to you if you’re a good host. If they pause for longer than 0.2 seconds before answering, you’re a guest.

As alluded to above, I am a terrible host. When welcoming people into your home, your mood sets the tone for what follows: if you’re relaxed, calm and smiley, they will be too. I am uptight, edgy – and very, very clearly on my last nerve as I open the door to let them in. I’m probably grimacing, I might be close to tears. I will then be so extremely laser focused on them having a nice time, that it will ensure they most definitely do not. I run from room to room. I yelp. I don’t engage in conversation, because even if I can briefly get it together enough to appear to be listening, I’m really thinking about whether I set the oven to the right temperature, and realising I forgot to look at the clock when I put the food in it. I am neither present nor absent, but an infuriating combination of the two. I loiter. I lurk. My energy is that of a surgeon dashing to the operating room, who has just noticed that they’ve forgotten everything they learned at medical school. Or perhaps it’s Manuel from Fawlty Towers. When it comes to hosting, I am a mess.

Being polite to strangers will make everyone love you – especially those who just want to swindle you out of your money. I won’t make that mistake again

I knew I wanted to marry my husband when I overheard him on the phone to a cold caller. Having recently reached a new stage in maturity, I’d rearranged the list of qualities I was looking for in a life partner, placing kindness above wearing good trainers.

He didn’t know I was listening, but asked the person’s name, then, addressing them by it, told them that he wasn’t in the market for whatever they were flogging, warmly wished them better luck with the next call, and hoped they would have a great day. He was undoubtedly a brief, friendly reprieve in an otherwise universally thankless task, albeit with no commission. I realised you can tell everything you need to know about who somebody really is from the way they treat cold callers, and have lived by that rule ever since.

Swapping roast potatoes and yorkshire puddings for kimchi and avocado – how can they live with themselves?

Trigger warning: the following contains a description of the most heinous abomination known to humankind. Ready? A diabolical 39% of gen Z add ketchup to their Sunday roast. This is as sacrilegious as it is unappetising. But what makes it even more appalling is that these monsters aren’t even ashamed. Instead of lurking in the shadows, hiding their Heinz, they’re happily admitting to their culinary crime in a new survey.

And their misdemeanours do not end there. In news that is particularly distressing on the eve of glorious roast season, it turns out they’re also exchanging roast potatoes and yorkshire puddings for hot sauce, kimchi and – sounds like a punchline, but isn’t – literally avocado.

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We’ve all had meetings that could have been emails. Often, this also applies to casual chats with your friends

The last thing you need in a meeting that could have been an email is attachments. Sadly, it’s sod’s law that there’s one oblivious person in every work gathering who raises extra, unnecessary queries using as many words as possible, and holds everybody up. Now, Forbes magazine has helpfully supplied three phrases business leaders can use to stop rambling questions from hijacking or lengthening proceedings, without embarrassing the hijacking lengthener.

But obviously it’s not only the office where we encounter those seemingly hellbent on derailing interactions, so can we steal Forbes’ gameplan for boring chat in real life?

This Danish concept encourages everyone to stop wasting energy on things we can’t change. You can even buy a pyt button to press. But does it help?

We wouldn’t ignore tennis tips from Serena Williams, or culinary advice from Nigella Lawson, so when one of the happiest countries in the world lets slip a life strategy, we should probably pay attention. Even if it does, at first, sound a little simplistic and perhaps provoke an eye roll.

Obligatory mention of hygge now dealt with, get ready to embrace “pyt”. Not to be confused with the 1983 Michael Jackson single, this Danish concept means accepting when a situation is out of our control. Then, even though we may be so angry and exasperated that we are in danger of spontaneous combustion, we don’t waste energy thinking any more about it and instead move on.

The platitudes, euphemisms and cliches are excruciating. But the people who say nothing at all are the worst

Luckily, I already knew having a comic thought at a tragic moment is a natural stress response, or I might have worried. My mum has died, making me an orphan – and what first popped into my head was how annoyed Larry David would be.

In Curb Your Enthusiasm, when Marty Funkhouser’s mother’s wheelchair was run over by a car, he proclaimed himself an orphan. David informed him he was too old to be an orphan. Funkhouser insisted that if your parents are dead, you’re an orphan.

From bowl cuts to extreme mullets, punk dos to bad dye jobs, a terrible hairstyle can never be forgotten – even decades after it has grown out

It’s the late 1990s. Big, round, feathered fringes are a huge deal at my primary school. Most of my friends have one, influenced by Britney Spears or Emma Bunton. I, too, have a fringe. Mine, as you can see, appears more inspired by Kevin Keegan circa 1993.

The idea of being deliberately unproductive is certainly tempting. The only concern is that you might enjoy it too much ...

They know what they’re doing when it comes to kissing, toast and horns, so get ready for a French Sunday. A new theory suggests that embracing this intriguing-sounding strategy might just be the secret to life, and, more importantly, to dreading Monday less.

Apparently in France the Sabbath really is a complete day of rest; not for the French any running of errands, cleaning or batch cooking. Rather than trying to do everything, they do nothing. And the hypothesis is that the French Sunday – or le dimanche français, as nobody is calling it – is transformative, and stamps out the Sunday Scaries for good.