Did I ever tell you about the time I went camping on a Sicilian beach?

I'm not a high maintenance girl. Honest. My make up bag consists of four items; foundation, Bourjois eyeshadow (which doubles as an eyebag concealer) eyeliner and mascara. My wardrobe fits on two rails and four drawers and a few piles on the floor of the spare room. I don't need to get my hair blow dried every week, or my nails done every fortnight. I don't care about owning a designer anything, and although I won't say no to a bit of luxury, I don't actively seek it.

So camping on a beach is excellent, right? A grand idea? Full of japes and merriment? Perfect for someone like me?

No way man. No way.

If you don't already know, I'm half Sicilian. My family came over to England in the fifties, leaving only my aunty (who married a crazy Sicilian man) and my nonni's brothers and sisters. The ones with thick Sicilian arms from years of making their own passata, and strong Sicilian legs from years of the midnight after-dinner walk/gossip. These people are made of strong stuff, having weathered the war - Sicily was a strategical gem, thought the Nazis and the Brits - poverty, earthquakes that reduced their simple stone villages to rubble, and the loss of the young who leave as soon as they can for the bright lights of Milan or Rome.

Every year from age one to age seventeen mum, dad, Lou and me would pack our blue Austin Montego and make the journey from Cambridgeshire to Sicily for six or seven long weeks. See what I mean about low maintenance? You don't know discomfort until you've sat in a car for a week cross-legged because dad wants to bring home four vats of olive oil. For reals.

When I left school and started work the long, blissful, carefree holidays stopped, and I chose other destinations in place of Sicily. Thailand. Gran Canaria. Africa. Europe. Asia. Sicily fell by the wayside because who wants to spend all their time in one place? It was just a gorgeous memory full of laughter and sun-kissed hours playing in the surf.

Anyway. Fast forward about five years. It must have been 2007(ish). My now-ex and I wanted to visit my aunty, who thankfully kept her house out there after nonna decided to sell hers.

We flew out, meeting my sister and aunty after a day or so. They'd already been out there for a week and had made loads of awesome plans.

One of which was to go camping on the beach. I wasn't convinced.

"Oh go on Laus," my sister pleased. "It's the one night of the year we can!"

Now, Sicilian beaches are hit and miss. There's no sleeping on them, and no fires. Usually. The west coast is battered by the wind and currents that squeeze through the gap between Spain and Morocco so the water is always cooler and full of medusa (jellyfish that give off a wicked - if harmless - sting). Better beaches are found on Castellammare del Golfo, or south by Ericlea Minoa. We were headed to Triscina, on the south coast. It was the one night of the year a beach booze up was allowed.

The night started well. We ate at home with the family, packed the car with a two-person-who-am-I-kidding-it-barely-fits-a-child tent, my aunty's duvet and started the short drive. It was a huge group of us, including aunty, uncle, their three kids, me, the ex, my sister and extended family I'm not 100% sure are even related.

The party was in full swing, with loudspeakers blaring cheeky Italian pop tunes, and barbecues sizzling with steak bought from the butcher that day. At first it was fun. We played beach games, had a swim and a right larf.

Getting to midnight, there was no sign this was going to end. An hour later and it was still raving. I tried to sleep, but the tent was so small and two of my cousins had decided to sleep with us. It was crowded. The scorching sun had made me sleepy and all I wanted was a few hours of rest. EVERYONE else was flat out, but there I was, Italian music from the last 2000s filling my ears. It's not good guys.

I gave up and tried sleeping in the car. The bass thundered through the cheap plastic, vibrating with ever WUAMP-WUAMP-WUAMP. I felt like I was losing my mind. Now I know why sleep deprivation is such an effective form of torture. But why? Why were they torturing me? Wasn't my family supposed to CARE?

After what seemed like hours, I gave up. I begged my aunty for the keys to their house, kicked the kids out of the tent and dragged the ex out of his slumber. I then demanded he drive us home, whereby I fully collapsed in the air conditioned heat and comfort of a good bed and no noise.

The next day my sister returned and laughed at my diva-like behaviour. I took the jeering well. Though they did pay me back by waking me up with a glassful of water the next morning.

Writing this back I can completely see how snobbish I looked. But what can I say? I just love my sleep.

Interested? Read on...

RECIPE: Sixty Second Nutella Brownie Cake

These brownies were the product of a rainy winter night, the desire to stay indoors and about thirty seconds of rummaging through my cupboards. I was DESPERATE for chocolate, but not enough to brave the rain.

I'm no fan of cakes in a cup - the texture's always off. So I did what any chocolate-craving lazy arse would do. I took the principles of making a cake, and made up something from scratch. Something delicious, fast and super easy.

The name. Sixty Second, because that's literally how long they take to whip up the mix and cook. That's right. It takes one minute to bake these bad boys. Take that Delia, with your egg whisking and oven baking. Brownie Cake, because they're not really as gooey as a brownie, but not exactly light and fluffy like a cake.

You will need:

1 teaspoon Nutella
1 teaspoon salted butter
2 teaspoons plain flour

1 egg yolk
Flaked almonds
Ramekin, coffee up, or any similar sized microwavable container

700w Microwave

Makes one

Method

Add butter and Nutella to a bowl and heat on full power for ten seconds in the microwave. You'll want the buttery mix to be hot, but not boiling.

Add the egg and stir until mixed through.

Add the flour one teaspoon at a time, ensuring all the flour is mixed in well.

Transfer mix into the ramekin.

 Add a small knob of butter to the top of the mix.

Cook on full power for 15 seconds, let it sit for 15 seconds, then cook for a final 15 seconds.

Let it sit for at least minute before eating.

Top tip: Don't be tempted to overcook this one. The brownie will keep cooking for the minute it's left standing so it's really important you follow timings.

Interested? Read on...

"Get your arm swing just right when you’re walking and you occasionally touch a bit of minge by “mistake”, they love it." #BANTS

I'll be honest, I'm not a fan of celebrity. Less so of social media celebrity. I don't care about Zoella, the Londoner, whoever. They don't really have anything to do with my life or my industry, and while I find them annoying when they're thrust in front of my screen intrusively (can Rosie write? Technically yes, she can work a keyboard and write words. Is Zoella shrill and annoying? Not to 13-year-old fangirls), they get on with their life, and I do mine.

Except, there's a problem. If you're a twitter fiend you may have heard of Dapper Laughs. A guy who's famous for, well, I literally have no idea. Having a few social media accounts is the only thing I can come up with.

Up until about a week ago, I was totally oblivious to him or the fact he even existed. I ignored the hashtags that showed up on my journo twitter account until the RTs got too much and I had a peek.

But now I know he's from South London, and has a programme about ‘dating’ on ITV. His real name is Daniel. Oh, and he's totally ok with joking about sexual assault, rape, and abusing homeless people. FOR BANTS, innit.

See, two writers reviewed his Christmas album (proving anyone can, in fact, create a Christmas album), and when they heard him talking about giving a woman “one up the bum” and a tramp stinking of s**t in The Name of Bants, they told people to not put themselves through the torture. It wasn’t a harsh critique, and they even included the links in case people did want to make their ears bleed listen

Anyway, he took real offense and got his legion of insane followers (who’d give the puppy-killing One Direction fans a run for their money) to threaten and abuse the two writers, blaming them for the lack of sales and that he WAS going to donate proceeds to a homeless charity but he can’t now, innit.

When Shelter got wind, they refused to accept any donations from Dan, Dapper, whatever, which then prompted an apology from him, because seriously when a charity refuses to take your cash, you’re on slippery ground.

His fans couldn’t understand what went wrong...

@dapperlaughs I can't understand. If people don't like you. They don't have to watch/ follow you people just love a good moan! #teamdapper
— Robert Anderson (@robbie_93_) November 7, 2014

Can't believe how much grief @dapperlaughs is getting this week. If you don't like it, don't watch it? I personally find him hilar! #TopLad
— Liz Dodd (@Doddlar) November 10, 2014

If Dapper Laughs humour offends you don't fucking watch his vines or show and don't bloody follow him on twitter
— Andrew Crossland (@americanoandrew) November 10, 2014

My opinion is that people take life far too seriously if they're complaining about @dapperlaughs If you don't like it, change channel?
— Laur. (@LaurenMabs) November 10, 2014

If you don't like Dapper Laughs don't watch his material. It's obvious what his style is and if people enjoy that they should be free to.
— Mathew (@lowerthanmathew) November 10, 2014

Ah, the old ‘if you don’t like it don’t look’ argument. See, as I mentioned above, I get that. I don’t read certain blogs and I don’t watch certain tv shows because I don’t like them, and because I don’t like them, I don’t look. But then again, none of them advocate sexual assault.

Anyway, it’s now come to light that he said one of his audience members was ‘gagging to get raped’ and that she should bring two friends with her backstage as she was going to need them.

ITV seems to think there’s literally nothing wrong with this. That he’s a bastion of UK humour and that comedians need to be risky. They’ve refused to recall his show, and may have potentially given Dapper Dan two more series. BECAUSE HE’S A LAD.

So no more talk.

I’d love everyone to take a look at this petition, and, if they agree, stick your name on it. We don’t need a generation of men thinking this is what women should tolerate, for jokes, bants, whatever. We don’t want boys growing up thinking this cheeky chappy persona is an excuse to threaten and demean the women they encounter in their day to day lives.

Because ‘if she cries, she’s just playing hard to get,’ right?

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When to resign from your job

It's a sad fact that most of our generation will be working until we're way into our late sixties. As awful a prospect as this seems, it simply means we could, and should, be picky about where we work. No one says we have to stay in the job we trained in, and in the same vein it doesn't mean we all need oodles of letters after our names to be able to have a shot in a new industry.

If we're to survive our working lives with some sanity - spanning five decades for some - we need a good work ethic, a little bit of luck, and an industry we want to support.

So what happens when you realise your career prospects aren't taking you any further than your current role? It's time to look elsewhere. And when you find a new job, it means there'll be one awkward conversation: a meeting where you say thanks for the opportunity Mr Boss Man/Lady, but I'm off.

For me, this happened a month ago.

And
I
Was
Petrified.

So say you've been offered a new job. You've got the call. When should you resign? I called on the expert advice of Annabel of Irenicon again to iron out the facts.

When to resign from your job

Check your contractual notice period... if you have one.

When you get news you've been offered a new role, chances are you'll get a written contract outlining everything from your company pension to holiday entitlement. If you're working for a smaller place, though,  or your role is a bit more casual, you might not be asked to sign a thing. But that doesn't mean you don't have a contract - it's just a verbal one.

Annabel says anything written down can serve as your contract, from informal emails to handwritten memos, so check these to see if there's any indication about your notice period in any correspondence.

Ok, so you've checked and there's nothing about your notice period anywhere. "In the absence of a contractual term about notice, you and your employer are on ‘reasonable notice’. For the majority of short term ordinary employees this will be the same as statutory notice which kicks in at one month’s service and is a week from either party."

So now you know your legal obligation, whether it's one weeks notice or one year. What next?

Don't burn your bridges.

As mentioned in this feature, you may want to slam the letter of your boss' desk, flip him/her the finger and tip over the water machine while moonwalking out of the building knowing you have mere days left at your desk. But not only is that a terrible idea, it could leave you without a job to go to next.

"Are you going to want a reference from these people at some point now or in the future? If their policy is to give ‘tombstone’ references only (which is to say you worked here from that date to that date as a whatever your job title is) then you are not going to affect that. It might be worth checking it out before you arrive at a decision though..."

Your employer has been decent enough to (hopefully) always pay your wages and give you a shot at your career. There's no need to act entitled just because you've decided to leave.

Work out a plan of action.

Firstly, sign your contract with your new employer. After all, there may be terms in your new job you aren't happy to just accept, so there could be a bit of negotiation needed before you go ahead. Only after the contract has been signed and sent should you then decide to have the chat - otherwise, tell no one.

Secondly, work out any remaining holiday you're entitled to. Again, check your contract for whether you need to take it as leave before you go or whether  you'll need to work the full period of notice and be paid in addition.

Thirdly, in this world of Instant Messaging and E-Mail it can be easy to type something up and fire it off. But you got the job face-to-face. So do the right thing and schedule a meeting to inform your boss.

It's not the easiest thing to have to do, especially if you've been at your place of work for years, or if you're a fairly intrinsic part of the company. Remember though, that not everything is permanent, and at the end of the day, it's just business. When you find a job you love (like I have) then you'll realise that quitting could have been the best thing to do.

Note: for tips on how to resign, click here.

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Is deciding not to head to university career suicide?

We've heard from A Boy and A Laura about how university helped them, not just bag their job in an industry they love, but also build their confidence with people, relationships and friends.

But what happens if you think university isn't for you? Are you doomed to a life of manual labour and friendless-ness?

No.

As Another Laura, here's why I think you can make it without those letters after your name.

When I was 16, which was far too long ago to even remember how I felt back then, I was a bit indecisive. My parents are both successfully self-employed, with dad only taking an Open University course when he was in his late thirties. So I grew up with the notion that uni wasn't necessary for all things. It was about priorities, working hard, and not slacking.

Plus, the plan was to always move abroad, so being settled wasn't ingrained in me as much as travel was.

At 16 I had literally no clue which direction I wanted my career to take. I wasn't even sure I wanted a career, preferring instead to earn cash monies and get a car/buy clothes/go on holiday than devote my life to work. I didn't want to take a course at uni for the sake of it, wasting my time and racking up a debt I wouldn't be able to pay.

So I went to college for a bit and started to study beauty therapy. Which I decided wasn't for me. I knew I liked working with people, though. But how and in what way I was unsure of.

Ten years later...

One day I woke up and I decided journalism was for me. I don't know what it was that told me this was my career, but I knew I wanted to pursue it. Desperate to learn and soak in all the knowledge I could, I took an intensive online course to get the basics, and then got stuck in pitching to editors left right and centre.

I worked damn hard to impress and network with those in the know, and after a stint at the Beeb and a few months interning at a press agency I found a job as a copywriter for a beauty website. It's led to so many opportunities, writing words for newspapers and magazines, for New Look and H&M, on tube ads to scripts for tv advertising. I've seen my work in print and on screen, and I know I've fought damn hard to make it happen. I know I'll also always have to prove myself to make up for my lack of formal qualifications.

Now, I face another career change, taking my work from freelance to something a bit more steady. I started my brand spanking new job as a Communications Executive for a really exciting travel brand almost a month ago. And I didn't need uni to get there. I just needed drive, enthusiasm, courage and the ability to learn new things pretty damn quickly.

And walking past a recruiter's window one Sunday afternoon.

So, in my opinion, uni isn't always necessary. And I'd advise anyone unsure if it's for them to think about forging their own career path rather than following the crowd. You can make a career without uni. It may take longer, it may be stressful, and it may require some raw talent mixed with sheer determination to be the best you can, but you can do it.

Dealing with disappointment and the scary decision

Someone else who shares my point of view is Hannah, 22, who blogs at Love Icon Fantasy Ego. She went to school in Solihull, and almost all her classmates packed up and headed to uni after A Levels. Not her.

Like me, Hannah says there are three reasons why she gave it a miss. "I didn't know what course I wanted to do, I didn't want to get into debt, and my parents didn't go and are very successful in their careers." Valid reasons lots of others can relate to.

But what did others think? "I didn't get opposition from family or friends," she says, "but my college mentors were disappointed because I was a high achiever and I think they always thought I would go."

"I worked in what I thought was my dream career as an assistant buyer straight out of college, asking persistently for a shot at it. Nothing happened straight away, so I decided to set up my own company. My now-boss saw my ambition and drive to succeed, as well as my business acumen, and employed me. I currently work as a Marketing Assistant."

Hannah hasn't been treated any different by employers, but admits that a few job seekers may resent us non-uni folk for not spending the time and money on study. "To be honest other people will have their opinions regardless."

Her advice for anyone who isn't sure what to do? "If you change your mind about working straight out of school and it doesn't work out uni will always be there, you don't have to go now."

What do you think? Have you managed to make a career without university on your CV? What did it take for you to make it happen?

Interested? Read on...

Review: Afternoon tea with the bunnies at Playboy Club London

I have to ask this question: what do you think the Playboy Club London is like?

Do you picture ladies in skimpy outfits being touchy-feely with men who leer over their boobs? Do you imagine mirrored ceilings, private booths and hidden 'extras' only the regulars know about? Do you think of silicone boobs, bums and lips? Members only? Business meetings and shady dealings?

Well, you'd be wrong. There are so, so many misconceptions about this place, and I had most of them.

Playboy's changed tack recently. Long gone are the notions that a woman is there for one (old) man's enjoyment. With the magazine recognising that feminism is now part of being a gentleman - though they won't actually use the f-word - features such as Jennifer Lawrence Is Not A Thing To Be Passed Around, based on her leaked nude images, and an infographic explaining when it's appropriate to cat-call a woman (if that female is literally a cat) have appeased female audiences. Playboy's come a long way.

So when I heard the Playboy Club was a. open to non-members, b. hosting a special pink afternoon tea to commemorate breast cancer awareness, and c. was in partnership with Salvatore Calabrese, maker of the world's most expensive cocktail, I was intrigued. Life is full of new experiences and I wasn't about to let my uneducated notions stop me. So, along with Mr W, we booked in to give tea a go. With totally open minds of course.

"DW,  I'm taking you to the Playboy Club," I said once the table was confirmed. Of course his eyes lit up. Tweets about being the best wife in the world were sent, and I earned some serious brownie points. Sure, he thought it was going to be all tits and arse, but I knew different.

The Club's located in a small street off Piccadilly. It's lit up but fluorescent pink lights at the moment, and at the entrance stand two security guards and two bunnies, ready to welcome patrons in.

Now, the bunnies. They're dressed in the typical attire; opaque tights, corset-like tops with fluffy tails, and a bow tie collar with matching cuffs (and bunny cufflinks). As far as what they're wearing, it's way tamer than the bodycon and boob tubes that grace Brentwood's Sugar Hut every week. Far, far tamer. It's a classic outfit, a bit of history, and one that serves the bar well.

Once we gave our names we checked our coats in - minus a £2 charge - and walked through to Salvatore's, a 70's inspired bar with hints back to the original. Bottles of rare and expensive whiskies, cognacs and brandies line the walls, as does a rubber duck (seriously, ask about the rubber duck). We were seated on a plush sofa opposite a group of three girls, a table of eight and a family of six. Seating in the other booths was a couple of businessmen and a few couples. It was a real mix of people.

The Playboy afternoon tea

After getting settled, Martina, our bunny, handed us a menu and asked us to choose a tea, from fruity to floral. Except this wasn't just tea. These were tea-infused cocktails. Served in teapots, sure, but they were definite cocktails. At £30 a head (with £1 being donated to breast cancer research) we thought this was really competitive with the scores of other places service afternoon tea in the area, less alcoholic beverage.

Served on slate,  the tea this month features a selection of pink treats - savoury include beetroot bruschetta, pastrami rolls, smoked trout and prawn mayo sandwiches. The bunnies were more than happy to take any dietary requirements or substitutions which was a good touch.

For the sweets, we were presented with carrot cake, pink 'bunny' cupcakes, blackberry and clotted cream shots and raspberry macarons.

The teas complimented the sweets so well, and there wasn't anything we thought could be improved.I was full after the meal, but Mr W could have done with a bit more. It was such a surreal experience, but all in good fun. Martina was a fantastic host. Over from my mum's homeland of Sicily, she's worked within Salvatore's as a bunny, just because she loves people. We talked about Sicilian words, the recipe for the perfect ragu, even carte Siciliana, for the longest of times. It really made the night, and I've promised to keep in touch, even if it is just to perfect my pasta sauce skills.

The Playboy Club members - inside their secret world

Salvatore's is open to non-members but head upstairs, as we did on our tour held by Bunny Hannah, and you see where the 1% come to play. A casino floor filled with bunnies as croupiers, a private restaurant, a sports lounge and closed-booth dining area available. But membership, which starts at a cool £1,000 per year, includes everything a playboy needs including dinner for four, a champagne tower, invites to the hottest events and access for up to three friends. Become a lifetime member for £15,000 and you even get to have lunch at the Playboy Mansion and enjoy the Playboy's private booth at Ascot. You'll even get a private chauffeur to take you to and from the club.

It's amazing to see how the other half live. The club was full of members enjoying their Saturday night, stacking their chips, and dining on chips.



After our tea we settled back down in Salvatore's and spoke to Antonio, the manager. He talked through the awards and accolades the place has under its belt, and before we left he suggested he bring us some special cocktails based on our tastes.

It was a great experience, and definitely worth a visit. It's not the cheapest place for a drink but then again it is a tourist venue, and you shouldn't be in Mayfair if you want a cheap drink.

The entire Playboy Club is designed around one thing: you. Everything is about enjoying your time there. Sure, life may be hard. But take off your jacket and shake off the rain, and everyone will help you enjoy life for a bit. As the Hef says, life is too short to be living someone else's dream. Even if it's just for one day.

Playboy Club London | 14 Old Park Ln, London W1K 1ND | 020 7491 8586

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My next travel destination: Tunisia

Africa’s never been big in my travel plans ever since I discovered Asia (DJ would agree to this after an evening in Wahaca where I convinced him to give Thailand a try). But I keep reading travel blogs, and I keep thinking perhaps I’m missing a trick here. Perhaps I don’t need to think about ‘travelling’ in Africa. Perhaps I should just think about a holiday. After all, I loved my all-inc break to Egypt a few years back.

Standing on the beach in south west Sicily, my mother’s homeland and the place I spent six weeks every summer as a child (and a teen. And adult if I can get away with it), you can actually see the coast of Tunisia on a clear day. Relaxing on the beach was almost always interrupted by a smiling marrochino or tunisio selling gorgeous rings and bracelets scored from their homelands, or cooling coconuts cut into halves. You couldn’t help offer them a cool drink after watching them pace up and down the scorching sand for hours on end touting their wares.

I would sit on the sand at Ericlea with the pine forest behind me, facing that mysterious and elusive land, wondering just what it was like in Tunisia. What did the people do? What did they eat? Could they see us here in Sicily?

My Sicilian family has made Tunisia their holiday hot spot for over thirty years (5,000 camels my uncle could have got for my aunty) and why not, with a Grandi Navi Veloci – literally meaning big fast ship - from Palermo being £80? After a lifetime looking at Tunisia from across the sea, I think it might be time to pay it a visit.

When to go to Tunisia

Tunisia is perfect as a winter destination resort, with First Choice giving some helpful advice about average monthly temperatures and rainfall. Even in January temperatures rarely fall below a breezy 17C - this time of year is best to visit the sand dunes as it's far too hot any other time. We have Jamaica booked for January, but as a cheeky little week away in November or December we’re thinking of Djerba island, which has absolutely stolen my heart.

Culture

Tunisia is steeped in history, with Queen Dido founding Carthage around 3000 years ago. Through the years (and the wars), Arab, Roman, Sicilian, French, Greek, Jewish and Turkish influences all shaped Tunisia into what it is today - there used to be a huge Jewish, French and Italian community in the country up until the 1950s. The main language is Arabic, but a little French and Italian is spoken. Oh, and did I mention their national did is couscous? Scrummy!

Carthage

These ruins are a massive tourist attraction, and for history buffs (like me) would be a must-see. The Ancient Roman Baths are seen as a great little place to watch history stand still against the backdrop of palm trees, the sea, and Sicily in the distance. Unlike here in the UK, where everything is hands-off, you can explore the vaults and chambers to your heart’s content. For fans of What Once Was, this would be top of the list.

Djerba Island

Around one corner you’ll see an octopus. The next will be a frog. The next, a lion. Street art takes on a new meaning on this pretty little island, with the whitewashed walls and cobbled streets home to traditional religious art and surreal paintings. Even old gas containers and doorways are a canvas. There’s a reptile farm on the island too, as well as Tripadvisor’s 2014 Travellers’ Choice Winner Guellala Museum which gives tourists an insight into the island’s history.

Beaches

Hammamet has a castle by the sea, Sfax is right next to a massive shopping centre, Tunis has the Pedruchillo ecological centre, and Monastir is the most famous beach. Lazing at the beach is great for a few days, but most beaches around Tunisia have plenty of things to do around them, perfect for keeping fidgety travellers like me entertained.

So, for now Tunisia will still be that mysterious country I would stare at while feeling the sea breeze over my sun-kissed skin. Well. Until I book a getaway due to the harsh English winter, that is.

Have you ever been to Tunisia? If so, where did you get to? And what are your must-see places?

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We ask a boy: what's up with the grooming routine?

Depending on your source, many people believe it's actually men who take longer to get ready rather than women. My wife can testify to this. I preen like a non-gay peacock. The question is, what is wrong with a good grooming routine? For special occasions, it can go something like this...

- Shower
- Face scrub
- Shave
- Moisturise
- Hair
- Scent
- Clothes

You have the occasional one who enjoys a bit of body butter (you know who you are), a dabble on the fake tan, and those who need to ensure "their hair does not resemble a whale", again, you know who you are.

It is increasingly common for men to indulge in metrosexuality. No, that isn't lusting after free newspapers. It's the equivalent of their female counterparts - men talking as much time getting themselves looking good as women have traditionally done.

Last year Debenhams surveyed 1,000 men, and this boom in groom becomes more evident. Of the 1,000 British men surveyed, those aged between 20-29 spent on average £35 per month on grooming products. It also revealed men in their 30s were willing to spend up to £50 on a moisturiser and up to £40 on sorting out eye wrinkles. EYE WRINKLES FOR PETE'S SAKE (if anyone knows who Pete is please let the editor know).

I must admit, I'm partial to a bit of this. My skin has been described as baby face by an aesthetic nurse. Considering I'm 30 and commute across London, that's pretty impressive. However, a baby face means no beard, and everyone is partial to a bit of facial hair.

To look after mine, I tried Lush's Kalamazoo beard scrub. It smelled lovely. So much so I would definitely be tempted to have a nibble on it if I'd had the appropriate amount of alcohol for such a suggestion. Filled with the naturally enzymatic pineapple, almond oil for healthy skin, jojoba for moisture and apricot oil for softness, no wonder it smelled good enough to eat. Lush pride themselves on being all natural, which is great for me as I don't like synthetic rubbish.

Their Five O'Clock Whistle shaving smoothie also smelled rather tasty. However on long beards it was nowhere near as effective as my preferred shaving cream. It would be perfect for men with a little bit of stubble that needs tidying up for that 9am client meeting the following day. It has left my skin in pretty good nick though, which is always a bonus - probably due to the high coconut oil content. Shame it took the best part of an hour to get rid of my beard though.

But that's the point. We do spend longer getting ready. We do spend longer making an effort. Gone are the days of clean-shaven short back and sides. Rough and slightly rugged around the edges is very much in, and that needs maintenance.

So next time you're getting ready to go out with your boy, let him jump in the shower first. It will save you a whole lotta waiting around time.

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