The SNJ’s new columnist Karen Eberhardt-Shelton was born in California but grew up in England.

She now lives in Stroud and is currently working on an education project called Learn, Think, Act and is hoping to develop an eco-community land trust.

Her thought-provoking columns will focus on how we all have to take responsibility for our actions and for our planet.

A few days ago I heard on the news that many single men over 50 are suffering from loneliness.

Men, lonely?

Most of the poor things aren’t skilled in dredging up emotions and sharing their feelings with somebody willing to listen.

They are tomcats roaming on their own, not cultivated to reveal their inner depths, so they keep them hidden and carry on like stalwart stoics.

As a woman, I find it natural to share my thoughts and feelings.

But, for the most part, am unable to reveal any of the deeper ones to dogs or cats, and with more than seven billion humans on the planet, who wants to listen, who cares?

In today’s world, encountering individuals who cough up the effort to offer concern and compassion for the troubled or lonely circumstances of others is like finding a £20 note lying untouched in front of the Co-op.

If you have a dog or two in your life, you can lavish attention on them, take them for walks, offer bones, read out bits from the paper as they snuggle round your ankles – take on 50 dogs and you would barely manage to give each one a single pat on the head.

More of anything generally translates to giving it less time and attention.

I look out of my workroom window and see hundreds of houses, many part of monotonous housing estates where people can live side by side and exchange nothing more than a brief “hello” throughout an entire year.

“Know thy neighbour as thyself” – how many centuries ago was that fantasy invented?

Even to learn my neighbour’s name would be an accomplishment.

I pity the elderly living on their own, the couple who split up and are left without anyone close to turn to for support and encouragement.

I sigh deeply over the lack of empathy or deeper interest we could hold for others, for whatever reason, it rarely surfaces.

Tell someone you know slightly that your favourite fox was run over by a taxi or that your cousin fell out of a hot air balloon and landed on his head in a cow pasture.

They will look at you passively, glance at a passing jogger, then say: “Well, nice talking, I must be on my way now.”

You can be scrounging by on minuscule income, live in a house with a leaky roof, have all your plans and ideas rejected, lack a family to turn to for comfort, know your cars not going to live much longer – and outside the sphere of a small number of genuine friends, nobody’s going to care about your situation.

Why bother?

Time’s short, there’s lots going on, everyone’s got their own world to attend to.

A sense of ‘closeness’ or security brought about by feeling you’re not isolated in your own private bubble, the emotional nourishment derived from feeling needed and worth something to others, a sense of belonging and being accepted for who and what you are, is as rare in today’s culture as hen’s teeth, or for that matter, liquid gold.