Puffed out after another punishing day's work, I was heartened to pick up the paper and realise I wasn't the only young 'un to feel so clapped out in the 'happiest' years of my life.

I am proud to announce that my burn-out is linked to a cultural phenomenon. I am part of a generation of TIREDs - thirty-something, independent, radical, drop-outs who, after a decade of wanton careerism, just want to drop out to join an ashram or become gardeners or take pot.

It's about time Thatcher's children came to their senses. We have spent our 'hedonistic years' involved in rampant CVism, presenteeism, simply too much workism.

Spending those supposed 'wilderness years' during our twenties amassing more qualifications, computer skills and consumer goods than a Sixties hippie would know where to put, it is time to locate our souls over a cup of camomile tea and a ten-week starter meditation course.

We were the super breed of work experience kids who were champing at the bit to trade in our school uniforms for office suits. We couldn't wait to get into the hurly burly of capitalist ladder-climbing but now we are seeing our conveyor belt lives for what they are: boring.

The straight-laced satisfaction of beating our parents into professions and ever-increasing salary brackets is now a stait-jacket. The TIREDs survey has found that 30-something professionals are weary of their demanding lives and many are swapping them for a few years of travel, voluntary work and jobs in alternative healing.

In our race for respectability, we forgot that the rat race has its own tyrannical appeal and it can feel impossible to leave. Once we're in the sharp suit and the uncomfortable heels, it's harder to get back into the tie-dye skirts of our student days when 'the treadmill' was something we were determined never to get trapped on.

All the same, at least we've learnt our lesson and, in a decade's time, we may have a generation of long-haired 40-somethings who scoff at the idea of a nine-to-five job and refuse to get a sensible haircut.

J-Lo and Ben Afleck have, on the eve of their over-publicised wedding, decided to delay it following advice from a psychic. While this is merely quirky, what is really sad is that they have inserted a 'no cheating' clause in their pre-nuptial agreement.

Apparently, Jenny from the Block has demanded its inclusion after Ben was rumoured to have spent the night with a stripper while filming in Canada. Ooops.

If these two people were genuine grown-ups and not synthetic stars, they would not need a legal clause at the heart of their marriage. What a triumph of hard-bitten pragmatism over good, old-fashioned romance.