#21 Allo Allo...

So, the weekend was cold and soggy-socked, but the bed was big and the tub generous and Mr M and I had nothing on our hands, but time. Oh, and food. Large, rustic portions, molten soufflés, oven-fresh bread. Yum yum yum. The same can be said for the Korres Fig Body Butter I packed. It’s for very dry skin – I think I have moderately dry skin – but it was a real treat. Full absorption requires dedicated rubbing, but it’s worth it. A great winter cream – which lets face it, given our current inside-of-a-washing-machine weather, is a grudging necessity. Also good for soles, elbows and scaly arms. The smell is unusual. I can’t say that I really know what a fig smells like as I’ve always been frightened of their worm-textured flesh, but the cream has a sweet, not sugary, whiff that didn’t compete with my perfume. Another buttery treat came in the form of the new Phytojoba. It's got the sort of thick, gloopy texture that reminded me of the mud pies I made as a child, but is a creamy colour with a sweet orange scent. I coated my hair from root to tip, sank into a hot bath and rinsed ten minutes later. I got silky, smooth, shiny hair. If you’re prone to flatness or greasy roots, add it to the tips of your tresses only. Whatever you do, it will really diminish dryness. Then there was the Chanel Inimitable Mascara. I’ve got very long, very straight lashes, so wearing the black stuff tends to weigh them down and undo the work of my heated curlers. I tried it. The brush is one of those odd plasticky porcupine designs that purportedly coats the lash from root to tip. I think this would be better for shorter lashes – I can imagine the stiffness of the elastomer bristles working well when worked down to the root of the lashline, but for my spiders’ legs, it delivered nothing more than a nice, deep coat of colour and decent separation. Nothing groundbreaking in that. All in all, it wasn’t a bad weekend’s work. Two buttery thumbs up, one so-so hand shake. Not to mention enough lunching, loving and loafing to keep Mr M and I going till next May… come what may.

#20 Adieu Adieu...

Ah, the joy of the dirty… ahem… long weekend. A few days without beeping inboxes, vibrating phones, growing paper-piles… just me, Mr M and the sea. Admittedly, it’s only the English sea and the weather is predictably dire, but I am not disappointed in the least. I have a large tub, a king-sized room and 24 hour room service at my disposal and Mr M and I intend to make the most of it. Packing for this trip has been a guilty pleasure. I’ve been rooting around in my newly acquired Muji storage system, pulling out those samples I’ve not yet had time to test and packing them into three different beauty bags – one for skincare, one for body and hair, one for make-up. I’m excited and shall dutifully report back on the performance of this trip’s travel kit. Every journey requires a different selection. Summer is all about bronzers, highlighters, after-sun and deep conditioners. Winter ski: lip protection, hydrators, foot cream and eye balm. The UK mini-break, well, you need a bag to ward off the grey of the sea and sky. This time, I have taken at least one new thing for each category –the new Körner Face Mist, Korres Fig Body Butter and the Chanel Inimitable Mascara. I’ve also stashed Phyto’s Phytojoba Conditioner, which I’ve not yet tried, despite the range having been recommended to me for years. Rainy days may await, but as long as there is experimentation on the bathroom agenda, I'm happy.

#19 The Fairer Sex...

I’ve not had much experience with men as Mr Malcontent was pretty much my first love. We met when we were still young in mind and body, fresh of face and hopeful of heart. Many years have passed and things are still pretty darn good. The inevitable things have changed – nowadays I rarely bother with the good underwear, he wears a pair of pyjama bottoms with more holes than fabric – in fact, wardrobe-wise, Mr Malcontent is not too bothered. I don’t mind – he has a good eye, skilfully skirting the line between scruffy and sexy and besides, I’ve never really wanted him to be a Hugo Boss man. I’d rather have a H&M boy any day of the week. In fact, the only fine-tuning that Mr M has proved susceptible to is not of the sartorial variety. The change has, in fact, taken place within his cosmetic closet instead. Sod’s Law dictates that Mr M has impeccable, beautiful skin. Clear and temperate with an outdoorsy smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks – boyish and youthful. He does not look his age. Sod’s Law also dictates that he had never taken an ounce of care with his complexion – when we first met, he was using shampoo as a face and body wash. I think it was Vosene. He was prone to dryness, a bit of eczema and as I entered the beauty arena, my knowledge and access to information filtered down to him. As did my continual product passover. You see, he would never spend more than a couple of quid on himself, but his eyes light up like fireflies when I hand him a bag of new booty. He gets face creams, self-tans, firming gels, eye lotions, lip balms… he has become my official male tester. There have been a few hiccups along the way. He’d been using self-tan as an everyday moisturiser, rubbing it into his eyes and wondering why his hands had turned a bizarre burnt-ochre colour overnight. So now, along with pricey products, I also pass on foolproof instructions first. When something’s good, he’s eager to tell me about it. He really liked Lush Afterlife – a cream that I hadn’t high hopes for. He said it made his dry skin feel comfortable and improved it within days. He also loves Nickel Morning After Rescue Gel. He uses it after a night when he’s struggled to sleep and insists that it makes him look fresher. He’s currently using The Sanctuary Cleansing Facial Wash and Protective 24 Hour Moisture Lotion SPF 15. Sneaky of me to give him an SPF-laden lotion, as he’s loath to apply suncare during the day, but the combination is working well. His skin has been clear and blemish-free for a couple of months now – he used to get the odd spot almost fortnightly. He also favours Caudalie Lip Conditioner (having tried Clarins, Chapstick and Neutrogena) and liked Lancôme’s men’s range too – in particular the face wash. New likes include Kiehl’s Eye Alert, which he’s been patting on in the mornings and the Shu Uemura Depsea Moisture Replenishing Cream – which he went through at an alarming rate. If it weren’t so expensive, I’d have bought him a new pot. At bathtime, believe it or not, he’s cleaned me out of MOP Basil + Mint Shampoo and Conditioner. It’s a great formula for his fine hair and he likes the herby smell (that’s his stifled chef talking), even if I’m not too fond of it. That’s another bonus, not only does he provide me with valuable male insights, but he also Pac Man’s his way through my growing giftbags – clearing space for future finds. And though these insignificant scenarios do not form the core of a stable relationship, it is certainly a flawless foundation for a marriage of cosmetic convenience. A-men.

#18 Cut to the Point

If I have to sit through that damned Gillette Venus advert one more time I fear I’m at risk of launching the remote control straight into the superficially smiley faces of those ridiculous, trampolining women (or myself off the balcony). For god’s sake. We’re talking about a razor here. That thing that gets left on the side of the bath, jarred with stubble and beginning to rust – the thing that we use to get rid of our underarm, leg and bikini bristles. It is not a glamorous affair. It is a necessary chore (and bore) and unlike the lasered legs in adverts, when I shave my pins, they’re not actually hairless to begin with. They’re uneven, furry and unsightly – nothing Goddessly about them. What is all this media crap being spouted all the time about every woman having an inner goddess? What bullshit. Inside every woman there is passion, mystery and power? Are they having a laugh? The ad’s producers should take a trip down to my local Wetherspoons on a Friday night to get a good glimpse of a real woman. She’s the one with a pint in her hand, wearing mismatched underwear, chanting the words to Robbie Williams' Angel with her best mate. Or she’s me, at home in the trackies and hubby’s T-shirt, watching Ugly Betty whilst snacking on peanut butter M&Ms. She’s not running along a beach, entering synchronised swimming contests or pirouetting through the air in a bikini. It gets my blood boiling to the point where I no longer care if it’s a good razor or not. It could be the Rolls Royce, the Dog’s, the crème de la crème... at the end of the day it’s still just a bundle of plastic and metal and I’m alchemist enough to know that even the Venus (along with every other mundane and ordinary device on the market) lacks the chemical componentry to turn a fleshy form into a golden goddess.

#17 To those who wait...

The gradual tanning market has gone a leedle bit crazy. I was already aware of the popularity of the products – I’m being sent at least three new ones every week – but it wasn’t until I wandered around my local Boots in search of Hayfever tablets that I realised the extent to which the market has shifted. There were shelves and shelves of the stuff. They even had their own section. No longer lumped in with the body creams or lowly, bog-standard self-tanners, gradual tanners are being sold in pride of place, popping up on every end-of-row display with explanatory signs informing us that it’s time we gave our bodies a daily dose of sunshine. On top of the in-store information overload, I’m also getting regular emails from ‘The Marketeers’ – those people who send out statistics in the form of lengthy PDFs – telling me that the ‘ladies’ are going crazy for a daily dose of hydrating colour that won’t stain, won’t rub off and won’t stink their partners out of bed. I, like most women it seems, like the idea. You can’t really go wrong can you? You rub it on. It doesn’t do anything too drastic. It doesn’t smell too bad. You just get on with your day and voila, after a couple of weeks, you’ve got a convincing glow that looks impressively real. Or does it? Well, just to be superbly irritating – it depends. Texture? Garnier Summerbody was too light in texture for my skin. I needed to use a separate moisturiser beforehand, or my legs reverted to their scaly ways. Scent? Palmer’s Cocoa Butter Natural Bronze Body Lotion smells even sweeter (and more artificial) than the original – as though they’ve packed it with extra teeth-jarring sugariness in an effort to mask the customary self-tan stink. Not for me. Many people love Johnson’s Holiday Skin – the gradual tanner that got the ball rolling. I picked the wrong time to try it as it made a small patch of eczema flare up into a persistent rash. I’m currently trialling Shiseido Daily Bronze Moisturising Emulsion. It says it can be used on both the face and body. I’ve only tried it on my legs, but it’s done a darn good job. It doesn’t smell bad either – in fact, I can’t remember it smelling of anything – always a bonus with tanners. I still chase the colour with a shot of cream on drier days, but that’s OK. Two days in and my pins have lost their customary pallor - far speedier than the colour served up by the competition, but without any tell-tale marks or missed bits. Good stuff. No waiting. Who'd have thought it?

#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.