I don't really care what people tell children - when you believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, one more fib won't hurt. But I am infuriated by the growing notion, posited in some touchy-feely quarters, that all women are, or can be, beautiful.

The latest twist on the pampering concept is spa parties, where a group of friends take over an entire spa.

As a kid, I grew to define what I didn't want my life to be like by sitting behind moaning women on the bus, hearing them bang on about their aches and pains, both real and imagined.

Families, generally, suck. And I say that as someone who, like my husband, had parents who proved the proverbial exception to the rule.

I am firmly of the opinion that women who make a lot of effort to hang onto their looks in middle age (unless they are beauties, entertainers or prostitutes) are rather sad, as one should surely have something more substantial to recommend one by this time, such as kindness or cleverness.

If you want sex, have an affair. If you want a relationship, buy a dog.

It has been said that a pretty face is a passport. But it's not, it's a visa, and it runs out fast.