Can you name the man in this picture with Heidi Klum?*

Women know a lot of drivel about celebrities. Men, generally, do not. I have struggled with this concept over the years, trying in vain to understand the evolutionary purpose of retaining information as pertinent as Heidi Klum’s relationship history and the fact that Billy Bob Thornton has a phobia about antiques. I don’t even LIKE Billy Bob Thornton. And yet still I know about the antiques.

This does not make me better than someone who’s blissfully ignorant of such things. It makes me worse. Particularly because this inane knowledge is squatting on valuable mental real estate that should be occupied by more relevant things like where the hell I parked my car at Westfield.

From a Darwinist perspective, it makes no sense either. Knowing that Winona Ryder and Gwyneth Paltrow used to be best friends until Gwyneth stole Winona’s script for Shakespeare In Love, won the part and an Oscar….is that going to help me survive a potato famine? Possible but unlikely.

Meg? Annette? Are you in there?

It’s not often I walk out of a movie feeling annoyed. It’s not often I walk out of a movie at all because to walk out, you have to be there in the first place. Films are too long and my concentration span is too short so I don’t do the movie thing much. But this week, I went to see The Women and I walked out before the end.*

I’ll skip the part where I thought the script was lame, the plot patronising and the characters paper-thin because I’m not a movie critic. Nor have I seen the original 1930s film on which this re-make was based. However. I do have eyes and some brain cells, all of which were unimpressed by the frozen faces of the women in The Women.

Shall we start with Meg Ryan? Let’s. I loved her in When Harry Met Sally. She was real. Vulnerable, quirky, unique, funny. A few years ago, Meg must have decided she didn’t like her lips. Too thin. Or perhaps she started worrying about the longevity of her career as a leading lady. Or maybe she was just having an ugly day. It happens. But somehow, it all translated into a decision to change her face. Now she looks generic, not unique. In The Women she resembles a Victoria’s Secret model, unrecognisable from her Sally days. I wonder if that was the point.

It's buisness time*

Have you been having sex with the same person for more than a year? Then you need to know this: there’s a 90 percent chance that you and your partner won’t have tried anything new in bed after your first-sex anniversary. Not even one teeny thing. And once you’re past the two-year mark? It’s almost certain the two of you will never try anything new in bed again. Never. Again.

That’s the startling sex news from psychologist, sexpert and author of the book Sizzling Sex, Dr Pam Spurr who interviewed more than 400 couples to confirm what many people already knew: variety may be the spice of life but not really of monogamy.

Dr Spur explained to The Times online, “I've come to call this the “two-year turn-off” because many partners find their uninspiring sex life does just that. There's often little motivation to have anything more than infrequent sex, which can cause relationships to flounder.”

And since women are usually the gatekeepers of sex in a relationship, the losers in the infrequent sex situation are most often men. A few months ago, I was reading a book which discussed this exact subject in one chapter.

Apologies in advance for the mental picture this post will put into your head.

For many years, pharmaceutical companies have been making women feel insecure by trying to sell them uneccessary ‘feminine hygeine’ sprays.
Now it’s the blokes turn.
Man Junk is a new line of organic shampoos for the discerning scrotum. Yes it is. According to the Man Junk web site:  "Any product that's made to clean your neck, back, buttocks or legs isn't going to provide the specific levels of odor fighting and skin treatment that Man Junk does."

Now I know what a dead-cat-bounce is. Phew.

Recession is the new black. Or should that be red? I didn’t study economics in high school, I studied French. And I wish I could be all Edith and defiantly sing ‘non, je ne regrette rien’ about that particular decision but I regret it a lot. Especially lately when all anyone wants to talk about is the economy, including me. Except it’s hard to talk when you don’t understand the words.

So a few weeks ago, I decided to fast track my economic education with a compulsory daily pig out on all things finance. I began scanning the business pages in the paper and online, reading as much as I could. I stopped flicking the radio dial or remote control when the finance report came on. I even sat through several prime ministerial addresses about the global financial crisis, only wandering off for snacks twice. Three times tops. How committed is THAT?

If Facebook was real life....

Earlier this year I decided it was time to break up with my friends. All 253 of them. They had become unmanageable and intrusive. Some were too needy. Others were annoying pests. They knew too much about me and in many cases, I knew too much about them. Did I care what magazines they were reading? I did not. Did I want to see what they looked like drunk in a bikini, straddling their boyfriend? I did not. Did I need to know that they were ‘feeling flatulent after eating too much Nachos’? Dear lord, not, not, not. These friendships were taking up too much of my time and not adding value to my life. So I went on to Facebook and deleted them. All of them. And then? When they began to trickle back? I deleted myself.

Having a Bad Hairdresser Day.....

I’m meeting a friend for lunch and she’s late. I’m annoyed because I know why. She had a hairdresser appointment this morning and even though she would have been finished in plenty of time to meet me, I’ll bet she’s gone home first. To re-do her hair.

By the time she arrives, 25 minutes late, I am officially cranky. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she calls out apologetically as she hurries over to the table where I’m sipping a chai and sending her “WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU?” texts.
“You are nuts, you know that, don’t you?” I chastise as she sits down. “I cannot believe you still go to that hairdresser.” My friend has the decency to look part sheepish, part wretched. “I know, I know” she grimaces. “I’m hopeless.”

How did this happen? How did this intelligent, assertive woman end up trapped in such a dysfunctional relationship with her hairdresser? As the customer in this transaction, how did she surrender her power and lose her voice? She’s not sure. All she knows is that she’s been going to the same salon for 10 years and having her hair cut the same way by the same guy. She likes him. She even likes the way he cuts and colours her hair.

What mummy tummy?

Well, it’s been a few weeks since I had a baby and you’ll be relieved to know I’m back in my size 6 white jeans. Yay, me. Also, I’m doing triathlons to blitz those last few pesky grams of baby weight. Isn’t that great?

Oh wait. It seems I’ve been watching too much E! News while breast-feeding and am confusing myself with Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Lopez. Silly, sleep-deprived me.

In actual fact, I’ve never owned a pair of size 6 white jeans except maybe when I was, you know, six. Such a small item of clothing would certainly be of no use to me now except to use as a burping cloth. And a triathlon? That’s just funny.

Here’s the thing. Since giving birth, my body has not done much bouncing back (although it’s been doing a fair bit of bouncing, if, by bouncing, you mean jiggling). I have not blitzed my baby weight. And apparently, this makes me different to every celebrity mother who has ever drawn breath. That’s what the magazines shriek at me week after week and I hate them for it.

Sex by numbers.

Carla Bruni-Sarkozy and French President Nicholas Sarkozy

Let’s play pretend. Ready? You’re a supermodel in the nineties, back when the word actually meant something. You are truly, genuinely super, one of fewer than ten supermodels in the world. Your peers are Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell, Linda Evangelista, Claudia Schiffer, Stephanie Seymour, Helena Christensen and Elle Macpherson.
You began modeling when you were 19 and quickly landed campaigns for Christian Dior, Yves Saint-Laurent, Chanel and Versace. You work and play hard with the biggest names in the fashion, film and music industries. Life is good. You are the hotness.
You walk kilometres in tricky shoes down the catwalks of Milan, Paris, New York and London and by the mid nineties, you’ve starred on 250 magazine covers. It’s an endless, global party and you earn $7.5 million a year for turning up.
For two decades, famous men are desperate to sleep with you. Some succeed. Eric Clapton writes in his memoirs about falling madly in love with you and how he begged Mick Jagger not to steal you. Mick does anyway and is your on-off lover for years.

Gastrosexuals. Blame Jamie and Gordon. Or should we thank them?

Men who cook used to be called….nothing. They were just men. Who cooked. But these days everything needs a name or market researchers become unemployed. Enter the Gastrosexual. When I first heard this word, I thought it referred to the way many men still want to have sex with their partners even when suffering from an upset stomach. But no, although sex is sometimes involved – more about that shortly.

Trend spotters have turned their attention to blokes who cook. Metrosexuals, it’s time to put down your exfoliant and pick up a whisk. The Gastrosexuals are coming to cut your grass. With lemongrass.

In a study into the changing kitchen habits of men, market researchers The Future Foundation have identified the Gastrosexual as: “masculine, upwardly mobile men, aged 25-44, who are passionate about cooking and the rewards it might bring – pleasure, praise and potential seduction.”

Did you catch the word “rewards” in there? This is key. Because there are two types of cooking. One involves the daily preparation of meals for yourself or your family. The other type is motivated by personal gratification, either to impress others or to wallow in the novel pleasure of the act itself. Like a hobby.