Am I the last person on the planet who has NOT had Botox?

CHATTI NG recently about how good a mutual friend looked, I suggested they may have had some fresh ‘work’ done. ‘ Duh,’ shouted another friend. ‘ Just like every other woman in London.’ I remembered this conversation last week as I read an article by my ex-colleague Laura Weir in London’s Evening Standard. Laura revealed that she, along with almost every other woman ( and many men) she knew in the media, had had the odd jab.

But not me. I have never had Botox or fillers or any of the multitude of cosmetic treatments available to make us look younger.

There was a time when people spoke in whispers about having a face-lift, which would require them to go missing in action for weeks until it healed and the bandages could come off.

Or when we wondered if someone had had ‘plastic surgery’, a term now as quaint as gingerbread.

Today, Botox injections and socalled tweakments are so popular that anyone can drop in for a lunchhour fix and still have time to queue for a Leon wrap.

Young women in their 20s are urged to do a bit of this and that as an ‘ investment’ for the future. Sadly, even some teenagers are regular Botox kids.

There are easy and supposedly safe options to correct everything. You can get rid of wrinkles, fill the grumpy face droop around the mouth, lift the eyelids, firm the jaw. Any or all of these would, without any question, improve my appearance. So why don’t I take advantage of them?

IT’S not because I particularly subscribe to going natural– after all I’ m no stranger to my treasured Josh Wood hair colourist. And it’s not because I think we should learn to love our crow’s feet and under-eye bags – I find them as dismaying as anyone else. I don’t condemn those who choose to have any treatments.

But I can’t bear the thought of doing it to myself. I hate the idea that underneath all the stuff injected into my skin there would lurk my real face, my hidden portrait in the attic, ageing unseen and ready to shock me if I ever saw it.

Instead, I feel safer confronting what is happening with acceptance, rather than indulging in a King Canute-like battle with the unstoppable forces of time. But for the first time, now so many people around me are perked up with a nip here and jab here and look at least a decade younger, I am beginning to wonder if my attitude is perverse and perhaps a bit peculiar.

Is there something odd about deliberately allowing yourself to look less good than you might?

And by not taking advantage of any of this stuff, am I starting to sound as old-fashioned as someone who still regards aspirin as a suspiciously new-fangled drug?

Trust me, Theresa it’s best to go quietly

WHEN you leave a big job, you are always advised to keep quiet about your successor’s progress. Not easy if you are Theresa May, since her job as an MP requires her to make a contribution to debates in the House of Commons. She has kept a very low profile since l eaving office, but last week she poked her nose above the parapet with a critique of the Johnson/Patel immigration policy. Cue immediate reports of her ‘taking a thinly veiled swipe’ at her successor. It wasn’t a thinly veiled anything. It was straightforward criticism, based on her knowledge and experience.

But if she mutters anything other than a full-fat endorsement of the new regime, she will always be accused of petty sniping from the back seat.

No wonder David Cameron legged it as quickly as he did.

I planted f igs trees – and my worries grew

WE’VE had a bumper crop of figs this year. Actually, that’s not entirely accurate. We’ve had our first crop of figs. Rob, who helps me in the garden, said the tree would never fruit in London but I knew it would.

Although I’m enjoying my moment of horticultural superiority, deep down it’s made me anxious. I prefer my experts to be in the right.

It’s always worrying when you discover you know more than the person you’ve put your trust in.

‘Upgrade’? No, more like up the spout!

MY iPhone has gone crazy. Overnight it’s become unrecognisable, like a child hitting their teens. And all because of one of those regular Apple upgrades. As far as I was concerned there was nothing that needed upgrading. Apps working. Voicemail received. Email functioning. I had it all under control. But now I’m in a strange land filled with options I don’t require and confusing layouts I can’t navigate.

Is a £400 hairdryer just a load of hot air?

OF ALL the many riveting insights into the way we shop now, afforded by the John Lewis annual report, I was amazed by the huge numbers of Dyson Airwrap hairdryers sold at over £400 a pop. What could possibly make a hairdryer worth that kind of money? Maybe curiosity value is the secret of its success.