#16 Bloody Cheek...

It’s fashionable to have a good old rant nowadays. If you moan and whinge and say rude, obscene, controversial things, chances are you’ll be embraced by the British public and topical debate shows will be falling over themselves to get you into a plastic chair in the hope that you’ll say something incendiary and send the ratings meter into overdrive. This crotchety new climate rather scares me, but having spent a fair few years working in the media it is, regrettably, a climate that has managed to dampen my natural, implausible cheeriness. Yes, it’s all very Devil Wears Prada, but I was once a lowly unpaid intern at the biggest magazine of all and it was during this time that I learned my first valuable and unforgettable media life lesson. If you are a ‘liker’, then my dear, I am afraid that you are deeply, whisper-inducingly uncool. The worst (and most successful) breed of Mag Hag runs around hating everything and everyone. Vitriolically, passionately, biliously dissecting and descrying all in their eye-line. C words are spat out more frequently than full-fat lattes and celebrities, icons and artists are all ugly, or fat, or stoned, or gay, or sleeping-with-the-boss; clubs are crap, restaurants ridiculous, the play du jour is dross and the book that everyone is reading is tasteless, dull and pedestrian. I was terrified of my new workplace – an office of silence, punctuated with piercing, self-aggrandising squawks. Thankfully, further down the line, there were other offices too – friendly, cake-eating, chatty ones – and it became apparent that it was possible to write for a magazine, smile a lot of the time, eat chocolate buttons with your editors and utter the words, ‘She’s so beautiful,’ without being shot down. And, though I might be prone to the occasional super-sized spleen vent, most of the time, I’m a lover, not a hater. So, on this sunniest of spring days – here’s some positivity: Shu Uemura Glow On in P Red 14. A bloody crazy Pete Burns breed of colour – it’s the antidote to all the blushers out there with names like Caress, Whisper or Sigh. In the packet it is pink-in-heat and a generous dusting will create a loud cry of colour across the cheekbone. However, it can also be blended down to give a 'less likely to scare the boys away' pinched-cheek pink. It’s my current NBF – New Best Find - and we're inseparable.

#15 Message Scent...

I've never succumbed to the idea that a woman should have a signature scent. It seems to be just the sort of thing that is advised by Debrett's, or Coco Chanel, or eccentric ex-Vogue fashion directors who wear the same precious musk every day and leave notes in their wills about getting doused with the stuff before being buried in it. Personally, I can think of nothing worse. How I wish to smell is dictated by one thing only - my mood. Today I was a Chanel No.19 girl. I needed a classic floral with a grown-up twist to counterbalance my girly sundress and topaz heels. Spot on. Yesterday, I wanted to feel sexy and as it was a little black dress night, I went for Jo Malone Pomegranate Noir - a scent that hooked my nose in seconds. On really happy days, when the sun is shining, but it's not too hot, I make a beeline for Miller Harris Fleur du Matin - I've sprayed it so many times that it's absorbed into the towels and tiles of my guest bathroom, for which I always receive compliments. When I want to lift my spirits or if I'm feeling slightly unwell and can't bear to wear a prim perfume, it's the new Aveda Yatra PureFume. It is how you'd expect to smell after a deep, calming Aveda massage. It uses a blend of four essential oils, two of which (rose and sandalwood) are among my favourites and also crop up in the glorious Aromatherapy Associates Rose & Sandalwood Facial Oil - which I've been known to rub on my wrists and neck in place of parfum.

I love them all - and hundreds more - Prada, Vivienne Westwood, Cerruti, several Miller Harris, Nina Ricci, Antonia's Flowers... Each one will smell 'correct' on a different day and not a single one is fitting all of the time. The joy is in deciphering the day's mood and matching it to the scent. The result can be harmonious - or disastrous. I once wore Miller Harris Citron Citron on a very dark day. A bad mood, bad weather, bad hair day. All day long it jarred - it was hitting major, sharp, citrus notes, while I wanted to be left alone to stomp around in the minors. I should have chosen something smoky, something musky or, perhaps, nothing at all. Then, at least, I wouldn't have had a beautiful scent sullied by my shady temper. But, you see, that is what I love about perfume. It requires a decision to be made that will not only have a visceral effect, but will ultimately also reveal a lot about you to the world at large. It's as communicative as a slash of red lipstick, an Amnesty International bumper sticker, a swastika. And the idea that a single bottle of scent could encapsulate my myriad moods or aptly express my everchanging mental state is nothing but ludicrous. Yet, because I've been asked to name my favourite scent so many times (even during a particularly odd job interview), I almost cultivated a fake one. No one would've known. No one but me...

No, for me, a signature would be nothing more than a fughese, a fake - a forgery.

#14 Arden Admirer?

I SHOULD LIKE IT, BUT...
OK. I might as well get it all out in the open. I don't like Elizabeth Arden Eight Hour Cream. Now, this is neither meant as a provocative outburst, nor as a privately-proud I want to be a black sheep kind of statement. The truth is, I'm flummoxed by its success. Utterly bamboozled. Year after year, there it is: in the Award Halls of Fame and on the tips of the expert tongues, packed in the bags of Beauty Directors and teetering atop the bestseller lists... it's the ultimate, omnipresent product and its popularity never wanes.

I, on the other hand, have a few rational reasons for not being sold on the subject. It has been a poetic eight years since I first tried the eight hour cream. I remember thinking that it was really gloopy - a good thing, because as far as balms are concerned, gloopiness is often in direct proportion to durability, but the problem was, I never went more than an hour without reapplying. It wasn't that it rubbed off, it was more a case of my lips chapping at an alarming rate when they weren't millimetrically wrapped up in the stuff - as though my skin was getting hooked and couldn't get by without regular top ups. The more I used, the more I seemed to need... and yet, my lips always seemed slightly sore and continually cracked. I put it down to a bad winter (it was spring) and dehydration (I was downing two litres a day). I was so determined not to malign the magnificent or to reach a conclusion that bordered on profane (if beauty mythology is anything to go by), that I just kept on using it. Day after day, week after week.

By the end of the affair my lips were a right old mess. I accepted the obvious. It just did not work for me. A make-up artist mate suggested I use the remainder as a gloss on my eyelids instead. 'Do you use it on the models?' I asked. Yes, he did, but conceded that it could sting if it accidentally migrated into the eyes. No surprise there, I thought, given that the product smells like my primary school sick-room - a powerful, medicinal pong.

Then, about a week later and during a sleepy, mid-afternoon smooch, Mr Malcontent pulled - nay, whiplashed - away from me and shot me a look of pure, eye-popping horror. 'What the hell is that on your lips?' he gasped. Not only had it failed to hit the sensorial spot, but apparently, it also tasted like lighter fluid (and 'Withnail, ahem, Mr Malcontent would know', I teased). Laughter aside, I knew he was right. So that was it. The final nail in this particular cosmetic coffin.

#13 Spleen-Clean...

Today I'm suffering. 90 minutes of gruelling, lymph-draining massage has left me lightheaded and bed-ready. I'd like to retire with a cup of white tea (which I'm hoping will help my body do battle with the emancipated toxins that are apparently dancing through my blood), but I'm already dreading the nightly five-step Dermalogica regime. Yes, five steps. Which, on a good night, when I'm still relatively bushy of tail and bright of eye, is just fine. But on a night like tonight (when my grubby grammar would've landed me in hot water, were I still being schooled by my indefatigable Latin teacher), I can barely spell, let alone pre-clean, cleanse, spritz, boost and moisturise.

So, I've jacked it in. I'm back on the balm. Before, it was always Eve Lom. Yes, that really expensive one. But I'm currently trialling The Sanctuary Hot Cloth Cleanser instead. The concept is identical: gets rid of all make-up, is steamed off with a cloth and needn't be chased with water (nor toner, nor cream). So far, so good. The formulation (which uses mainly organic ingredients, including Beeswax, Hemp Oil, Cocoa Butter, Jojoba Oil, Chamomile and Gold of Pleasure Oil) also bears similarities to Eve Lom (which also uses Hops, Chamomile and Cocoa Butter). It doesn't come off as convincingly as the Eve Lom balm, in fact, I get the impression it's trying to sink in, rather than lift away dirt, which I don't really like. But then I discovered that once you've added water to the equation (try carrying out the facial massage with moist hands) - it emulsifies well. It is also very moisturising and skin is left balm-y, clammy, spongy afterwards, which if dry and neglected, is no bad thing. It's been three nights on the trot and I'm actually rather impressed. The fact that it is also 4.8 times cheaper than Eve is more than enough reason not to be lead back into temptation. Well, not until payday at least...

www.thesanctuary.co.uk
www.evelom.co.uk

#12 Cheap Stakes PART ONE

If I think about the hundreds of items of clothing that I've returned over the years - everything from a pea-green coat that my sister called 'catalogue-y' to a pair of Miu Miu sandals that were sexy in the box, but made me hobble with premature decrepitude after five minutes - it strikes me that if the same returns policy applied to cosmetics, I'd be considerably richer, and far less cynical now. I was a student, living on £30 a week, convinced that I needed a Clarins face cream and cleanser. I bought MAC make-up and Shu Uemura curlers and Kanebo concealer. I gorged on Ruby + Millie lipgloss, Stila bronzer, NARS blusher. I was an utter fool - a broke fool - with a burgeoning make-up bag to match the escalating overdraft. So I stopped. Cold turkey. Boots was banned, all Superdrug stock sequestered. Never again. And I stuck to it. Back in the black, things improved. I'd taught myself the art of cosmetic control - I didn't need the £50 face cream or £80 cellulite gel or £20 blusher. In fact, I'd learned that it didn't really matter what kind of crap I slapped on my face - you don't get good skin from spending lots of money. You get it from being happy and healthy. Yawnsome, but true.

So, today my outlook is rather different. There are yummy, luxurious, decadent, effective things that can be bought with notes - of course - but not one of them will change your life. And, I don't know about you, but when I discover a fabulous, but pricey product, I can't stop the mental calculations in my head for long enough to enjoy it - "£60 a month, £720 per year - Blimey! I could buy premium gym membership for that! Or take an amazing holiday.... or... or." You get the guilt-tinged point. So, in the spirit of exuberant economy (the mantra being: spend less, get more, have fun!) I've come to like my little trinkets cheap and interesting. That way, if they're good - as many affordable cosmetics are - it's far more satisfying.

Here are the staples that have been floating my boat (and keeping my afloat) for some time:

1. Burt's Bees Lemon Butter Cuticle Creme. Less than a fiver, smells like fresh, sharp sherbert and lasts for ages. In fact, I've got a two year old pot that's still going strong.

2. 17 Sheer Shine Eye Cream, £3.79. Good stuff that's very easy to use. Comes in a series of nice shades with a subtle, shimmery finish. Tigerlily is a favourite.

3. Boots Coconut & Almond Leave-In Conditioner, £1.79. I go through a bottle in the summer. I saturate my ends, or spray it all the way through damp hair if I'm doing a senorita-style-bun, comb it through and go about my business. Smells like you'd expect it to, which is no bad thing.

4. Rimmel Special Eyes Eyeliner Pencil, £2.99. It's firm (so you don't get that awful melted-chocolate consistency that you often get with expensive soft kohl) and it doesn't crumble, smudge or melt.

# 11 Day of Rest...

Living slap-bam in the centre of the London Marathon route, I spent the day out on my balcony, shouting out the names of strangers - 'Go Fred! Go Kath! Go Katie! Save the Rhino!' - in an effort to 'respeck' the throngs of fit, thumping thighs pounding past me. Yes, it is remarkable. 26 miles. Wow. Cor. Fantastic. Wish I could do it. I think I might try for it next year. Etc etc.

An hour later, and after further torment (i.e. one too many glimpses of the cocoa-butter-bods on T4's Shipwrecked), I was on my way to enquire about membership at the local gym. Timing wasn't great on my part. Rather than revving up the inner resolve, the whirring treadmills, sweaty dumbbells and shiny Swiss Balls left me cold, languid, and within twenty minutes I was back at home, snoozing on the sofa. In my defense, it's a bad time of the month and I'm currently doubled up in agony, typing in the foetal position. And when things get this bad, there are a couple of tried and tested remedies that I like to pull out of the Doctor's bag:

1. Elemis Lavender Neck Pillow. This was a limited edition gift with the Luxury Dream Journey Traveller and it comes in a sneeze-inducing gets-up-your-nose-and-all-over-your-clothes faux-fur pillowcase. I take the grain-filled bag out of the 'Kerchoo-Case, stick it in the microwave for two minutes, stuff it under my jumper and spend the rest of the day walking around like a deranged woman who's playing at being pregnant. No, sexy it isn't, but the natural lavender aroma combined with the steaming heat is just the tonic for sore tummies and that is all I care about.

2. Aromatherapy Associates De-Stress Muscle Bath & Lavender Oil. If muscles are tight or cramp has set in, I take a small amount of this potent oil and rub it directly onto the skin. The ginger, rosemary and lavender oils warm the area, tingling slightly. Follow with a hot shower. It really takes the edge off the pain.

3. Dr Hauschka Lavender Bath. I'm not really the bathing type and prefer the slap on the back of a high-pressure shower, which is why this grass-green oil is a bathroom staple. The steam from running hot water vaporises the liquid within seconds, filling the room with a knot-loosening, tension-reducing fog that works wonders on even the most pernickety of schwitzers.

The problem is that with all of these somniferous scents floating around the house, it's impossible to get anything constructive done - there'll certainly be no heavy machinery operated in the Malcontent household tonight. In fact, had today been an ordinary working day, I, like millions of others, would simply have deployed a time-honoured, straightforward and foolproof pain management plan. The same course of action that men and women have been taking for decades: drugs, lots and lots of drugs. But as it is Sunday, my one day of rest, I'm actually enjoying these half-lids and heavy hands... and sometimes it feels nice to remind myself that the solution needn't be swallowed every four hours. Sometimes, it just comes naturally.

#10 Pong Whiffy…

I remember my first PSE lesson at school, which long before the inflatable tampon and condom + banana tricks, involved a lesson in the body and its natural, well, pungency. We were taught that once we had all reached puberty, our bodies would start to produce stronger smelling secretions and if we were not careful, if one did not have a can of Sure about their person at all times, that one of us – any one of us – might well fall victim to the dreaded, toe-curling, whisper-inducing, ‘B.O.’. Having B.O. at my school was the most rapid and assured way to commit social suicide. Two well-developed twelve year olds took it upon themselves to sniff out the offenders every morning – laughing and yelping, rolling on the floor with pinched noses, if they caught a whiff of anyone who had forgotten their daily spray. We all lived in fear, no, terror, that one morning, or, god help us, after a triple sports lesson, our bodies would plot against us and produce a malodorous current, picked up by a particularly well-tuned nose, that would result in immediate and non-negotiable dismissal from the group. It is for this reason, I believe, that I have a mortal fear of my own smell. Mr Malcontent – ever the smoothy – once called it ‘soupy’, ‘but,’ he said, trying desperately hard to redeem himself and his chances of late-night-loving, ‘I really like soup.’

Nowadays, I take no chances. I love the sea-fresh smell of Bionsen Spray and Roll-On – spring breezes can waft my armpits at will – I smell good. The same, however, cannot be said of all. B.O. I have learned, is not just a social stumbling block for pre-teen girls. It is also a common characteristic of the overworked and underwashed professional man.

Too many summers have passed and I can remain charitable no longer. The weather is getting hotter, tubes sweatier and BY GOD, the men in their manmade fibres are stinking up the entire carriage. It’s April 21st and already, there have been five culprits – all ages, all sizes, all suited and booted and half-asleep – wreaking to High Holborn. The problem, I have come to realise, is not necessarily personal hygiene. It is, rather more simply, a matter of laundry. Many men are not washing their work clothes often enough and a large percentage are wearing the same shirt, suit, tie and coat from Monday to Friday. Which means that if you happen to find yourself on a tube in Friday morning rush hour, packed into a burly bloke’s armpit – trying desperately hard to shift your olfactory centre in another, less savoury direction – you are, in fact, privy to a week’s worth of recycled reek. Nice. So, come on guys, get your households in order, stock up on the suds and do a wash once in a while. It'll be worth it. After all, The Lynx Effect is one thing, but in reality, there’s nothing sexier than a freshly laundered, crisp, clean, white cotton shirt. Now that’s my kind of Bom Chika Wah Wah.