Take Kyle Sandilands, for example. He has made a career out of saying some pretty awful things about other people and has copped a lot of criticism for his opinions. Yet he has steadfastly refused to engage in any dialogue with me about such matters because, as it was pointed out by one of his minders fairly recently, ''you never write anything nice about him''.

Hey, don't shoot the messenger.

I know of a rival columnist, once a friend, who is notorious for the prickly barbs found riddled in her columns. She too cops a lot of flak for what she does, some of it unwarranted. But I also know that despite her claim to having the ''hide of a rhinoceros'', she has anxious, lonely moments in the early hours of the morning staring at her bedroom ceiling and mulling over the morality of what she has written.

And while her victims refuse to believe it, behind the ''death stare'' is really just a big old pussy cat who wants to be loved.

As a journalist, I'm not interested in being loved; it tends to obscure one's news judgment.

Recently, I documented the Sydney social pecking order as played out in the seating arrangements at the glittering David Jones fashion show. I'll be honest, it is a well-worn chestnut I have wheeled out with some (cough, cough) regularity, but it is one that never ceases to intrigue me and my readers. Who makes it to the front row and who is relegated to the ''nosebleeds'' is always very telling, as well as the behaviour of some of those who discover they have been relegated to a less-than-favourable position.

It's amazing how seriously some people take this stuff.

Of course, it all means nothing in the real world, but gee, it's entertaining to watch and a great antidote to the drudgery of life.

Most of the names I referred to in that article took it on the chin; indeed, one of them I ended up sitting next to in the front row at the Myer show the following week. Initially, she gave me the evil eye and was a little frosty, but she soon warmed up, even managing to smile and chat with me as we joked about the theatre of life and how it is plays out inside the Sydney fishbowl. It was a relief to see she had a healthy sense of irony.

Sadly, the same cannot be said for PS regular Roxy Jacenko.

A socialite-publicist who has pursued a level of recognition with the sort of strategy and gusto one would usually associate with an election campaign, or indeed a military operation, Jacenko has opened up her home and her personal life for countless spreads in magazines, been praised by her media ''mates'' as a fearless industry leader and is arguably one of the hardest-working publicists in town, especially when it comes to promoting herself.

But she has a selective view on what journalists should write about, and what they should ignore, namely the multimillion-dollar insider-trading charges her husband, Oliver Curtis, is facing or the toxic email written by former employees that went viral recently.

Jacenko stopped returning my calls about various stories months ago, choosing most recently to reply … via a lawyer.

So, when I wrote about her being relegated to the back row, behind a fashion writer for a free suburban weekly, Jacenko was less than amused. ''Your [sic] a strange man Andrew - I cannot fathom what you could have gone though to become such a bitter and twisted person - surely its [sic] not all worth it to turn a dollar,'' she began, though I'll spare you the subsequent psychoanalysis she offered.

Remember, this is the same woman whose antics on national television had her portrayed as a fire-breathing, horned she-devil who brought grown women to tears, and yet she's upset about being outed in the back row?

In the end, she asked for me to ignore her, and I'm happy to oblige, but Roxy, are you sure that's what you really want?