DESPITE vicious rumours to the contrary, politicians are only human. OK, the jury is still out on Mandelson, Redwood and Widdecombe, but most of their colleagues are just like thee and me.

They get toothpaste on their ties, they always have one sock left in the washing machine, they never have the right change, the words of the national anthem always elude them after the first verse, and they often find themselves humming the theme from the Great Escape when spending an evening with their in-laws.

They are just ordinary bods and, like ordinary bods the world over, they have affairs. It's not big (not in most cases anyway), it's not clever, but it happens. So why do we still insist on being shocked? And, perhaps more pertinently, why do we insist on knowing about it in the first place?

When Member of the Scottish Parliament Jack McConnell and his wife Bridget held their recent much-publicised press conference, anyone would have thought he was admitting a crime worthy of the death penalty instead of an affair seven years previously with a Labour Party press officer called Maureen.

Of course, he wanted to clear the decks before becoming First Minister of Scotland this week (assuming Jack the Lad has managed to make it through the weekend with his vest tucked firmly in his Y-fronts), but why were we, via the media, so desperate to hear about it? His affair, like so many over-hyped political affairs before it, has no bearing on our lives whatsoever. Just because he made a mistake, an error of judgement made by a bad husband, it doesn't make him a bad politician.

This, however, does not always follow in other professions and in other circumstances. After setting aside the McConnell story with little more than a raised eyebrow, I read of Kent headmaster Malcolm Hayes' affair with his 16-year-old foster daughter with my mouth agape.

How could this committed Christian and former Teacher of the Year be so irresponsible, so selfish and so downright dumb? Surely no one could take such a man seriously ever again?

A police investigation has cleared him of any criminal wrongdoing and after four months' sick leave, Mr Hayes is now back at the helm of his 230-pupil primary school - much to the delight of parents. His staff are apparently not speaking to him and I dare say the only words he hears from his wife Paula are "bog" and "off", but the parents have welcomed him back with open arms.

Personally, I'd welcome him back with an open manhole cover.

u I AM going to a party this weekend and I'm scared I won't know what to do. It's been so long since I've been to an adults-only soiree (adults-only bar my other half and his brothers) that I've completely forgotten what it is I'm supposed to do when I get there.

Do adults still get ridiculously drunk on a heady mix of cheap Costcutter lager in chipped cups and tequila slammers in wine glasses minus their stems? Are we still supposed to dance to twangy indie guitar music while lamenting the demise of The Smiths and debating the age-old question of whether Oasis could really take Blur in a fight?

I'm assuming that nothing has changed when it comes to food and that the only edible things on offer will be a rock-hard piece of chewing gum stuck to the back of a Blondie picture disc and whatever fluffy sweets I can salvage from the bottom of my handbag. But is it still de rigueur for one adult to take it upon himself - sorry, but invariably it is a partygoer of the male variety - to vomit over the fence into next door's garden narrowly missing their moggy but giving their favourite gnome a nasty surprise?

Maybe I should just stay at home and watch the telly in my pyjamas; I'm good at that. But no, I promised I would be at the party and be there I must. And anyway, I've already dug out a bra and some knickers that actually match, so I suppose the die is well and truly cast.

Just pray that I don't inadvertently start a game of pass the parcel while the host isn't looking.