Dear Agony Aunt

I'm about to head off on my summer jollies, and can't wait. The problem is that I can't really be bothered to send postcards. The best bit about going on holiday is surely escaping all the dull people we have to be polite to for the rest of the year, so the last thing I want is to be reminded of them while I'm sunning myself on some exotic beach. Should I just bite the bullet and do what's expected of me, or can I get away with blaming the postman?

Tanned and Emotional

Dear Tanned and Emotional

How very quaint. Don't we all use BlackBerries these days? I received a picture of my best friend drinking cocktails in a Turkish bar the other day, followed by a detailed description of the bargains she'd picked up in the local market (two Chanel watches and a Rolex for £30) – so much more fun than a casual "Wish you were here…" Not that I'm in any way justifying the fraudulent production of designer goods, you understand.

Besides, most picture postcards are tacky, while the messages are usually rambling synopses of the sender's every move since arriving – "On Monday, we visited the Neolithic ruins, which were very interesting. On Tuesday, we saw the cathedral. Yesterday, we went shopping. We met a lovely couple from Broughty Ferry. Blah, blah, blah..." Let's face it, nobody cares.

Worse are those who insist on printing out all their friends' addresses on sticky labels before leaving – have you people no lives?

Yet I digress. I suggest you write no postcards and enjoy your two weeks of freedom. But be sure to bring back something either edible or gluggable from duty free. Even boring friends are better than no friends.

Dear Agony Aunt

When I was asked by my sister to be her bridesmaid, I was overjoyed. But I have since discovered that the off-the-peg dress she bought me no longer fits. For some reason it's now far too tight.

Sadly for me (and her intended), my once understanding sis has turned into a bridezilla, and I am too scared to tell her. What should I do? The wedding is next month.

Anxious Bridesmaid, Selkirk

Dear Anxious Bridesmaid

The expression 'a moment on the lips is a lifetime on the hips' comes to mind. Which has obviously fallen on deaf ears in your case. You only have yourself to blame – that and the family-size bags of Doritos.

But the damage has been done, so you will have to lose the weight fast by any means necessary. Colonic irrigation is always a viable option, and a body wrap could work wonders.

Alternatively, buy a new dress in a bigger size, or ask the shop to swap it without telling your sister. She'll be none the wiser.

Failing that, you could always tell her the truth. I mean, what bride does not want to hear that her bridesmaid can no longer squeeze into her dress when she has spent the best part of a year starving herself in order to get into her meringue?

• Got a social dilemma? Send it to spectrumlifestyle@scotlandonsunday.com

Chitra Ramaswamy

DINING out – two words that can signify bliss or a big old bicker, depending on the state of your relationship. Going to a restaurant with your partner can be a veritable battlefield, with cutlery for weapons and only a basket of bread to cower behind if the going gets too tough. Or one of you starts crying.

It's all about expectations, or rather disappointments. There you are, in an intimate dining-room, candle flickering on the table and jazz muzak piped through from the bar, gazing into your lover's eyes as you suck on the same strand of spaghetti. It's a perfect moment. Except for one crucial point: you haven't got a damn thing to say to one another.

Come on, stop hiding behind your napkins: this phenomenon of restaurant-chat death is one we have all experienced, surely. I know, because I witness it frequently (not that I'm looking around because I've got nothing to say to my loved one, of course).

And I have been in relationships where the conversation is about as charming as a poke in the eye with a bread stick. I have wept before the starters have arrived, though I have yet to stand up during the main course, scream, "How could you?", and chuck a glass of wine at my beloved's face. (After which someone calls the waiter over and says, "I'll have what she's having." Perhaps you can tell I've imagined this scenario once or twice, or possibly just watched too many Meg Ryan films.)

Why do we do it to ourselves? Why can't we, now and again, admit that we would rather clink glasses with a pal (or even an enemy) than the person we go to bed with every night? This admission does not spell the end of the affair. It's healthy. (Though if you never want to eat a meal with your squeeze again, you might be in trouble.)

I reckon we could do with putting a bit less pressure on ourselves to be in perfect relationships. Instead of trying to play happy couples, why not use the occasion of an intimate meal to continue that long-running argument about pants being left on the floor? And here's a bonus. If we start airing our dirty laundry a bit more over dinner, we'll give ourselves something to talk about.

Daddy cool: Eddie Barnes

MOST families will have come across the stroppy second child. Starved of attention because their parents are still ogling Child No 1, the second child is forced to moan and sulk in order to ensure the world knows they're around. And now it's happening in my own family, as my wife accuses me of ignoring our daughter.

Born eight months ago, younger sister to an elder brother, the poor thing is largely invisible to her father, I'm told. All I have eyes for is Golden Boy and his fast-improving right-arm bowling action. It seems I am going to be responsible for turning her into the stroppy one.

Certainly, it's true that I find I don't worry about her nearly as much as I do about Numero Uno. The second child is a bit like the guest who arrives late at a party long after you've stopped fretting over whether anyone is going to turn up. "Come on in," you say, "make yourself at home," before turning back to whoever you were talking to.

And it's undeniable that I pay her less attention. Last weekend, I was playing with Golden Boy for several minutes before realising that the little one, who is yet to start crawling, had managed to squirm out of the rubber ring in which I had plonked her, and was now face-down in a kind of praying-to-Mecca pose, unable to move.

Then there are the trips to the park where he gets to go on the swings, play with a ball, feed the ducks, and she gets to, er, sit in her pram.

There are some upsides to my inattention. She has been largely spared all the Baby Einstein and Early Learning rubbish that we hoovered up with the first one but which is now gathering dust on the bookcase. We've also largely ignored the 'Contented Little Baby' routine and instead gone for the 'She's Not Crying, That'll Do' method.

But is she turning stroppy? It's still too early to tell – her tears have probably got far more to do with the teeth coming through than any lack of interest from Dad. In my limited experience, it seems babies just are – you love them, feed them, put them to sleep; and they do the rest. The psychological trauma and emotional angst come later. And if the inattention might cause her to rage against the machine, won't it also have a positive effect? Fewer expectations, less parental anxiety, less pressure. It's easier to be the one who wears the hand-me-downs than have the pressure of being perfect.

Yes, second ones have it easy. Now, back to that bowling lesson…

• Eddie Barnes is Scotland on Sunday's political editor