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I have become a blight, an abcess, a problem. Some people have been reading between the lines of these weekly columns and found "mental delirium combined with themes of grandeur" in the writing. The smattering of letters I receive are preoccupied with one thing (1) and one thing only: my mental stability. I am, I'm told, unhinged. Thankfully the writers of these letters have been kind enough to include the names of good psychiatrists (good in the professional, not the moral, sense). Some of these "pleas for commitment" have been sent by psychiatrists themselves spotting a touch of manic depressive psychosis in the articles. (Perhaps business has been poor and they've been forced to solicit.) They maintain their primary concern is for my well being. They fear for my sanity, my unfortunate yet imminent demise, the mess I'll make when I hit rock bottom.

I've never felt so cared for by people I don't know. It reminds me of the Spanish Inquisition where the great love the interrogators showed their subjects often resulted in death. (2)

In response to concerns about my "negativity" - or, as one carer puts it, "the underlying text of suicidal tendencies" - I have never desired to do away with myself. It's true others have wished to get rid of me, but like an unwanted guest at life's party, I've hung on in there.

Still, these calls for my institutionalization have occurred regularly throughout my life. As a youngster I was a timid and uncertain thing, in outlook essentially jolly, but prone to fits of melancholy. To combat this I was fond of drawing and at any opportunity I would sketch. The ideas were childish and I am guilty, to this day, of the same introspection. I found the rectangles of white paper doorways to other worlds. Worlds of white skeletal figures dancing in putrid fires, of bulbous-headed children with monstrous searching hands, of hairless creatures hollowed and inhabited by nightmares. (3)My sister, who was justifiably proud of her brother's strange creations, asked if she could exhibit them for "show and tell". We were 12 at the time. I was filled with pride and overcome with doubt. I was proud she thought so much of my humble doodles and yet I hesitated: this would be the first time my drawings would leave the safety of the family. The first time I would be scrutinized by other eyes. I eventuall y agreed, and as the folio of sketches left my room I felt an immediate sense of loss.

I didn't have to wait long for judgement. The next night my sister in tears told me that the nun's response was unequivocal: the drawings amounted to pornography and were the product of a sick and unhealthy mind. They should be destroyed - burning would be best. It would be advisable if I sought out medical help and my sister was remiss in her role as a family member if she didn't inform my parents of the sad and sorry state of their eldest boy. (4)

It continues to this day. In there columns I was attempting to offer an antidote to the standard fare of the Sunday papers, an alternative to the ceaseless parades of tasty cuisine, carefree holidays and rampant materialism. I have failed. I attempted to suggest the society we live in is diseased; you have you have responded by telling me it's me who is sick. And yet some good has come out of this. I now realise how troubled I am and without your help I may never have noticed. Over the years numerous people have requested that I see a "doctor" and I have always wondered whether it was for my health of theirs. I have always resisted the siren call for institutionalised sanity but these days I'm just mad enough to do it. I promise I'll go tomorrow. (5)

(1) This is false. There are numerous letters that congratulate the writer. McDermott focuses on the negative, he lies and then needs to confess. He speaks here in the third person, using a different voice, indicating schizophrenia.
(2) Does this comparison suggest a massive persecution complex or is it mere paranoia?
(3) Suggests hallucinatory experiences with grossly abnormal anti-social behaviour.
(4) Delusions of grandeur combined with a poverty of thought from an early age.
(5) Transparent attempt to win favour by accepting the diagnosis. I doubt there'll be any discernible change(ie tomorrow never comes).

How we cherish those moments when we were the first. When as a child there was wild acclaim and adulation for the simplest actions. Where stumbling forward was rewarded with a kiss. We remember fondly when we were the centre of the universe and all the planets and suns and moons were forced to revolve around us. Over the years the interest generated by our initial appearance will dwindle. It will dwindle from the eyes of our parents, from the hands of our friends, and from the hearts of our loved ones.

We are, of course, loved as much as in that first moment but we're not as interesting. Over time we become commonplace, accepted, nothing special, part of the furniture. Eventually we pass from day to day largely ignored. The ego is affected profusely by this lack of recognition and as a result invents a multitude of devices that con alleviate the pressure of going through life unnoticed. They're called Attention Seeking Devices, or ASDs.

My most recent experience of a blatant ADS occurred during the film Saving Private Ryan. Several million dollars worth of investment were totally overpowered by a shallow coughing device which could have been overcome with a minimal investment in a pack of Throaties. To maintain a sonic dominance over the film, the sufferer cleverly combined her hacking dry cough with a high pitched "whisper". Thus between her barking mortar blasts and the untuned static of her speech, there was always something to drag you back to her. Tom Hanks could have been marching through Normandy naked and no one would have noticed. As she left the cinema she gladly soaked up the angry glances of the other patrons. A smug, self-satisfied smile creased her face and she didn't cough once. It didn't matter that most of them wanted to throttle her because, in the battle for an audience, she had defeated Spielberg.

Anthropologists now believe the ASD is as important for our development as the opposable thumb. If you look around you'll find that most things we do don't have to be done at all. Work, play, sport, philosophy and reproduction are merely different ways of being noticed, of drawing attention to oneself.

A classic ASD that has spanned centuries is the newborn baby. The question that must be asked is whether this bundle of joy is the perfect embodiment of the physical union of man and woman, a testament of love, or an eight-pound Barbie doll made out of skin? New parents are worse than drug dealers when it comes to getting the unconverted hooked. Any recent convert to the wonders of reproduction will chant the birth mantra: you've got to have one, it'll change your life, I've never been so happy.

One popular male trait, which rivals the dance of the Rifle bird for it's audacity and shamelessness, is the ability to lose commonplace items. It may be the remote control, a pair of glasses, or a book put down minutes before that suddenly disappears into the ether. The things that go missing are small, everyday objects. The male will insist on searching with unnecessary displays of frustration and anger.

The reason for this is purely evolutionary: it's an act to attract the partner. Whoever is around is forced to participate in the hunt. The object is frequently in full view, neither misplaced nor gone. This is not the first step towards dementia, it's deeply tied to the human need to create something to talk about, and that something should be oneself.

The true dilemma of ASD epidemic is the domino effect it creates. Once you're aware of the disease, it forces you to reassess all your actions and thoughts in light of an "attention deficiency". You may descend into a maelstrom of conflict and confusion. There's a simple solution: you're OK if you leave the cinema still coughing or when you find the remote there's actually something you want to watch. Use the ASD, never let it use you.

When I glimpsed the cover I was overcome with fear. I never thought a set of numbers could affect me so profoundly. My heart seized in my chest and I felt unsteady on my feet. When the blood began pumping again my first thought was: if they're making diaries, there's no escaping it. The apocalypse is on it's way. Do those numbers, arranged in that particular order, spell out doom? Is there something ominous in that configuration? Mass destruction? The end of the world? Even if you don't believe in numerology it's hard to avoid the mystical properties contained in 1-9-9-9.

Is it mere coincidence that when you divide 1999 by three (the trinity, the number of good) the result is a chilling 666*? This is the same number assigned to the beast in the book of biblical prophecy, the Book of Revelations: "And this number is six hundred three score and six." I don't want to cause undue panic in the middle of the silly season, but the world is about to end.

If you don't trust my calculations or the Bible, there's always Nostradamus, the Koran, Prince, and every psycho on every street corner. They've all testified the world will end before 2000. Even T.S. Eliot knew it. In the original version of his historic poem "The Hollow Men", the last line read: "This is the way the world ends, on January 1st, 1999, not with a bang with a whimper." His publisher persuaded him to remove the reference to the year and thus a timeless classic was written.

You must hurry. You have a few days between Christmas and New Year to collect the canned meats and get ready for the apocalypse. Don't throw anything out after the sleazy or solemn celebrations on the 25th, including those terrible gifts you get every year form the same genetic throwback relatives on your partner's side, you may need it. Get extra batteries for the kids' toys; otherwise they'll go crazy in the shelter. Head for higher ground. It may be fires or pestilence but I'm betting it'll be the old flood theme. If you can't make it to higher ground get a really long snorkel.

Even as you read, biblical prophecy is being fulfilled. People have begun to disappear. Have you noticed that several people who have been with us every week of the year are nowhere to be seen? You hear the same old stories: it's a non-rating period, they're taking a break. But where have Ray and Kerri-Anne gone? It's my belief they, and other world-famous personalities, know what's about to happen. Due to their respected positions in the media (and Kerri's connection through Midday with psychics) they've found out the truth about the future. These stars of Australian television and many more like them are preparing for The Rapture. The time when those chosen by God will disappear before our eyes and be taken to Heaven. And who more deserving to sit beside our Heavenly Father than Ray and Kerri? Ray will be able to ask hard-hitting, no-holds-barred questions about transubstantiation and Kerri can entertain the angels with the Macarena.

And if nothing happens, if the human race survives or we live through the horror, would it be possible to exist, with any semblance of joy, without Ray and Kerri-Anne? You may as well tear the sun from the sky or rip the love from our hearts. Sadly I sense that I too am slipping away. I can feel the edging of my body becoming indistinct and frayed, dissolving. I may soon disappear.

So please, enjoy your Christmas and the few days of tranquillity before the New Year. Live it up - for the beginning of the end and the beast cometh.

* To be honest, when you divide 1998 by three you get 666. When you divide 1999 the result is 666.3 recurring. The recurring .3 tends to make the exercise a little less Satanic and terrifying. I did what a researcher would never do - I falsified the results.

There it goes again. I know what it is but I don't want to look. It's just audible enough to draw my attention away from the newspaper, away from what I'm concentrating on. The noise sits on the outer edge of my hearing. Other incidental sounds are louder and sharper, but this noise possesses one quality they do not - repetition. There it goes again: a flat inconstant hum followed by a dull, wet thud, a moment of silent recovery, and then it begins again.

I am determined not to look up. I know it wants me to look. It wants me to acknowledge its pitiful existence. It's been going for five minutes now and shows no sign of ending. It has no mind to grasp the annoyance it's causing me.

I become more intent on the newspaper, even though I am not reading anything. My eyes are running over nothing more than squiggles, the angles and forms of language lost to me. I'm staring at sheets of grey but my mind is on the fly.

I put the paper down and watch the big, fat blowie wander up a pane of glass, pointlessly searching for an opening. It's drawn to the light and the lush garden beyond, with its promise of dead and rotting things. Twitching fibrous legs gain easy purchase. It swivels, flies up an inch or two before smashing its useless head against the glass.

Outside, grey clouds have swamped the little house where I'm staying. The blow-fly passes from one pane to another, bulbous segmented eyes pounding against the invisible barrier. I witness the uselessness of its actions, the hopelessness of its situation and can't help but think of myself. (It's not that I can relate everything back to me, but in this situation it does seem particularly pertinent). I have been handed a visual template for existence: the fly.

I wonder if its miniscule brain is grappling with this same dilemma

Perhaps the giant will give me a big damp bowel of sugar.

Fate has forced us to companions but I'm certain all the fly wants is food, to be somewhere making larvae to a hunk of beef. The last thing it wants is to be here with me: one of us trapped by the incomprehensible and the other in a quandary over the futility of existence.

Perhaps the giant will reach over and save me from myself.

I have no desire to play God: to let it live by guiding it to an open window or destroying it with a dose of Baygon. I have no need to lord it over the lesser creatures or to impose my will on their miniature worlds. The battle for life is played out billions of times in these mindless scenarios and this micro-drama must find its own resolution. This is one insignificant scene from a universe of pain.

Between the intermittent buzz, I contemplate our own daily struggle, our joys and sorrows. I think of the difficulty of life, the choices we make that seem monumental but lead to the same inescapable fact: the hopelessness and meaninglessness of existence. (We are all trapped by invisible borders.)

I am in a free-fall of existential angst. Then I realise the buzzing has ceased and I emerge in a room filled with peace. During my reverie the world had quietly changed. Beyond the windows the mist had melted back to reveal an achingly beautiful sky of the softest pale blue. I noticed the insect was also gone, the relentless buzz and thud replaced by birds calling to each other from the eucalyptus trees.

I became so absorbed in my thoughts I was oblivious to the fact the fly had escaped and I realised there is hope for us all. In the most dire situations we must never give up. There is always a way through, to triumph, to persevere against unimaginable odds, maintain the lust to live. I felt the fly had been sent to me with this exquisite and wondrous message. At least that is what I felt in the scant seconds until I saw the fly again.

There was no mistaking this was my fly. In the bottom corner of another pane, the ugly black-green body was covered with sticky white strands of web. Every movement managed to wrap it more tightly. The drone had become a pale imitation of itself: it sounded pathetic, weaker, accepting. Beneath the struggling insect six hollow fly carcasses stood as testament to the spider's skill and hunger. For some reason I thought of Vincent Price, Jeff Goldblum and myself. Such is life.

Help me please.