What I need is a pep talk, words of encouragement from someone who'll grab me by the shoulders, look me in the eye and say: "You are NOT a failure!"

I've tried it myself without success. "I am NOT a failure," I repeat like a drugged parrot, staring into the bathroom mirror.

The Mother looks worried and asks me why I'm talking to myself. I tell her I'm trying a spot of self-hypnosis to conquer my inner demons.

She tells me to be very careful. Men in white coats have come to take people away for less.

There is a valid reason for my introspection, however. Every year the university I attended back in the glory days when nobody had thought of student loans and tuition fees, sends me a copy of its graduate magazine.

Inside are pages of news stories about what "we graduates" have been up to - our successes and awards - in the past twelve months.

Unfortunately, "we graduates" doesn't include me and never has done.

Instead, there are reports from around the world on the achievements of other, more illustrious, alumni.

Among these movers and shakers are people I know, or knew. Faces and names from my past that I never thought I'd see or hear of again.

This latest issue was full of them, and every one making their mark - some marks considerably bigger than others.

The mousy haired girl who used to borrow money from me for the coffee machine in the common room for instance.

Miss Mousy has just written a best selling chick lit saga, her third in three years.

There are rumours that volumes one and two will be made into a movie, possibly starring Reese Witherspoon, Kate Winslet, or a girl who was almost picked to play Bridget Jones and whose name I forget.

Now living in LA (Los Angeles to you and me), Miss Mousy is no longer a mouse but something rather more foxy. Bet she doesn't need to borrow money for coffee machines any more either.

Of course, I always thought Gorgeous George (Greek with an unpronounceable surname) would make his mark on the world, even though he used to doze off in philosophy tutorials - didn't we all?

I'd have bet on him being an international banker or bonker (oh, he was handsome) but no, seems he's an environmentalist who has spent the last 18 months in Peru.

Biggest shock is the red haired girl who once boasted she'd slept with every male in - and behind - the union bar. Seems she's a professor somewhere now. I'm still wondering when she found time to study.

And what about me? What indeed.

Inside the magazine is a form. It invites me to tell my fellow alumni about my year.

What did I achieve in 2002? Well, I lost weight during the summer and put it all back again in the autumn.

I filled in my tax form on time, painted a bookcase without getting paint on the carpet and saved more than £80 by not getting the bus and walking into Brighton instead.

"Why are you sighing?" asks You Know Who.

"Because I'm a failure," I tell her. "Because I haven't made my mark on the world and it's too late to do anything about it."

"Nonsense!" says The Mother. "It may be too late for you to sail round the world single handed but you could still write your novel ... or in your case, make it a short story."