The Stepford Wives are alive and well, selling perfume and lipstick in major department stores near me. As I stagger in with shopping bags which hurl themselves to the floor, my scarf catches in the door. I let go of the bag handles and step back three paces to save my puce face from further discolouration from strangulation and embarrassment. I manage to disentangle the scarf, gather my randomly scattered bags and smooth my windswept hair and rain spattered face.

Then I notice the stepford girlies, their shiny pink rosebud lips shaped in patronizing simpers as they look from me to each other and raise their impeccably drawn eyebrows slightly, (not enough to cause a wrinkle and send them rushing off for a botox fix.)

I walk past as they stand, torpedo-boobs and non-bottoms captured in miniature white coats, long red fingertips twitching around to find a little duster to wipe off any untoward rain splatters that have been impolite enough to scatter themselves on to their counter.

I can look nice, honestly. I just don’t glide around looking like Victoria Beckham or Madonna on a daily basis, or do factory production line style exercises. One two three four, thirty two, fifty six,…..” At eleven a bell rings and they clock off for a glass of water and three cress. Eleven fifteen and off they go again, “Fifty seven, fifty eight….,”

Would most women rather do that amount of press ups for a perfect stomach or put up with a bit of childbearing bulge? Many of us are modelling the answer.

The time for looking perfect is limited no matter how much you spend on line busting, face smoothing, wrinkle ironing, lip puffing lotions and potions. But I still lather on expensive superplenamin multiwrinkle vanquishing cream daily. This morning, peering at my imperfect face in the mirror, I decide to ask for my twenty quid back, because I’m worth it.