Today, I counted six tits in my back garden – they are obviously winding themselves up for some mass spring avian shagathon because they won’t bloody shut up. ‘Don’t pick him, pick me, I’ve got what it takes’, they seem to say, the little darlings. Meanwhile, at the front of the house, the man opposite keeps taking his top off and standing spread-eagled at his window. I try not to look but he looms large every time I wander anywhere near the bay. I’m thinking, is he wearing pants; has he got an over-active gland or is he just trying to say ‘hi, I’m a guy and I’m casual’. Whatever, it’s just a little bit freaky so I’ve now positioned the sofa so I can give due deference to Jeremy Paxman masterfully urging the spods on University Challenge to ‘come on’, without feeling nudey man’s unblinking eyes gliding, Norman Bates like, over my supine form. Naturally, with spring in the air, my thoughts have turned to grooming. So, today, I took myself down to the hairdressers for a shampoo and set. They’re very right on in my salon which means they’ve recently ditched regular towels in favour of large, recyclable sanitary towels. So, after the ritual torture that is the backwards hair wash, I have to suffer the humiliation of having my head wrapped in a grossly inadequate, incredibly tight towel that makes me look like an inmate from an 18th century lunatic asylum. Jimmy, my ‘hair technician’, tells me that he can ‘towel off’ most ‘normal’ people with just two of the Doctor White lookie likies. However, with me being a fully paid up member of the Hair Bear Bunch, I require five towels and even then I’m still dripping. Next week, I’m going for an Ultimate Hydrating Matis Facial Treatment. Dammit, I will be a Goddess.