I'm blind!

No, you mucky pups, not because of that (and it doesn't actually make you go blind, or there would be FAR more guide dogs around). I've been blinded by science. Or so the marketeers would like to believe. (Marketeers; like musketeers, but their weapon of choice is not the mighty sword, but magnificent swathes of bullshite).

I give you - bifidus actiregularis. Seriously?! 'Ooooh!' we all exclaim, 'that yogurt will have my bifidus digestivum all regularis in no time…' Or not. Because it is made up.

The beauty industry is even better. Our dedication to harnessing the secret weapon of the bold and the beautiful ('luminosity') knows no bounds, and the spin goes right down to the list of ingredients. The main ingredient in most shampoos, moisturisers, lotions and potions is 'aqua'. Also known as 'water'. They even highlight their bastardisation of chemistry in ads, with their oh-so-patronising 'here comes the science bit... Concentrate!' Makes me want to concentrate the attentions of my foot on their posteriors.

Doesn't stop me buying said lotions and potions of course, as my hundreds of Boots advantage card points will attest. I am a slave to product (I need all the help I can get to look vaguely presentable). But I do get tired of the tomfoolery.

I like a bit of honesty or, better still, a smidgen of humour. The marketing minds at Soap & Glory do a good job of sticking a tongue in the rouged cheek of the beauty industry and gently sticking two fingers up at ridiculous litigation gone mad, from their product titles ('Glow Job' …titter) to their disclaimers ('Soap & Glory formula's are not tested on animals, only very picky people.’) On 'The Breakfast Scrub' they proclaim; ‘We are legally obliged to tell you that THIS IS NOT FOOD.’

Let's face it; the beauty bods don't really need to try very hard to peddle their wares. There is a lot of competition, but they have a vast army of devotees, ready and willing, credit cards aloft, to buy and try the next 'amazing' 'miracle' solution to all their problems. For some, sadly, looking good is all that matters and there are no limits. Prime example: Botox. People are injecting poison into their faces. Actual, honest-to-god, poison. And to what end? A fixed expression, ever ready if a surprise party should be thrown at them, but sadly unable to show any other emotion; positive or negative. You might was well just hang a 'vacant' sign around your neck.

Because you're worth it.

Just look at those luscious locks...

Curiosity may kill this Cat

Some people never tire of prying into your private life. I refer to them as 'nosy b@stards'. Not a blindingly original title, but fit-for-purpose. Don't get me wrong. I am fairly liberal with relatively intimate details with those close to me (sometimes a little too liberal after a refreshing beverage or two) but this particular brand of individual generally has no business making your business their business, if you get my drift. The Aunt you see once a year and don’t particularly like; that individual at work with too much time on their hands (who often inspires the question 'what do they actually do…?’); the friend of a friend, of a friend, of a friend whose name you've forgotten. Them.

When you're single they're obsessed with you 'meeting someone special', and specialise in patronising pseudo-excited grins and reassurances you neither need nor want. I think we should start issuing medals / small trophies to honour unattached comrades who refrain from punching these types in the tit (stereotyping, I know, but this behaviour does tend towards the female of the species). No, violence is not the answer, but 'Feck off you interfering old <insert expletive of choice>' is a possibility. Best to nip them in the bud because I have bad news for you single people; It does not stop when you meet someone you're willing to share the remote, deserts and your naked self with. They are never satisfied.

They simply move on, scarcely pausing to draw breath, to 'when are you getting engaged…?' (I was going out with my now husband three months when the questions started. Three months!) And if you do decide to enter the circus-world of insanity that is The Wedding, you open yourself up to some of the dullest conversations known to man. Flautists, flowers and favours my arse. These snoopy types are, of course, in their element. And will expect an invite. (Stand firm! Do not give in!) Then, before you've even cut the ridiculously overpriced cake*, the next line of questioning begins.

'Any news…?' They ask expectantly, dancing around the subject with all the subtlety of a baby elephant, staring at your belly, trying to decide if it's full of baby or biscuits.

It's biscuits, I assure you. Now feck off.

*Ridiculously overpriced, unless you have a talented mother like mine, who made our cake and my dress. 

She rocks.

Why use two words when one ridiculous one will do?

I like words, and I’m all for us making up new ones, especially sweary ones (like twazzcocks – excellent word) but things are going a bit too far of late. Our propensity for portmanteau is positively plague-like (try to say that without spitting...) And has anyone noticed it tends to describe very unpleasant things? Smog (ick), tweenagers (those 8-year-old girls with belly tops and high heels on. Yes – them.) and Spedi (utter twazzcocks the two of them).

‘But fusion is a good thing!’ I hear you cry, ‘If it wasn’t for the fusion of nuclei we wouldn’t have stars!’ You are right, of course (and a very clever lot if I may say so. I failed Physics at school. To be fair I might have had a shot had I not chosen to write a letter to the examiner rather than answer the questions on the paper. But I felt it would be nice to brighten his/her day with a cheery hello amongst all the dull formulae and experiments they’d be forced to read about. Anyway, I digress…)

We’ve had plenty of fair warning that, when we start mucking about with it, fusion can go horribly wrong. Never mind nuclear bombs, when trousers and skirts were merged in the 80 to form culottes I think we all agreed it was a very bad idea, did we not? The polka dot ones I got for my confirmation were certainly a huge mistake. As was the perm, but that’s another story, and no, you can't see a picture.

Sadly the fashion world has not taken note of this grievous error. They have carried on regardless with their jeggings and their snoods and their (*retch*) meggings. Meggings. I ask you. It sounds like something you’d need a powerful cream, or a dose of antibiotics, for. ‘I’ve got meggings’ you’d whisper to your friends, eyes cast downwards in shame, and they’d back slowly away from you with a look of both sympathy and disgust (symgust even?)

It must stop. And so must I. Must get ready for brunch.