I was surprised to see Kate O'Mara on my television last night. But not as surprised as she looked. My goodness, that's quite a facelift she's had.
It will have to stop soon lest she find herself in possession of a lustrous and curly beard. Or a little goatee if she's fastidious in the appropriate area.
Anyway, it was rather chilly when I ventured out this lunchtime and my hands soon developed a peculiar numbness, as if they had somehow grown to the proportions of those owned by the Kenny Everett character Brother Lee Love, making it impossible to grip small items like coins, thimbles or Tic Tacs. "Dang!" I thought, "If only I had remembered my gloves."
My ears, too, were cold as a Hitchcock blonde sitting in a freezer in the middle of the Antarctic. In the nip.
Of course, this was not a problem in my younger years, when my gloves were attached to each other by a long string which ran along one arm of my coat, across my shoulders and back down the other arm, and my ears were kept toasty warm by a balaclava. But I'm an adult now, I can't get away with that sort of fashion statement, no matter how sensible.
But maybe I can. Maybe we all can. All we need is one sacrifice. If Kate Moss or David Beckham would just pop a nice woolly balaclava and pair of elasticated mittens on, we'd all be able to wear them without fear of being picked on by bullies.
Perhaps if we all club together we could employ one of them to do the honours for a couple of minutes. Just long enough for them to be papped, and we'd all have nice warm ears.
And Kate O'Mara could pin her skin back with a bulldog clip, and mask it with her own balaclava, saving a fortune on plastic surgery and that.
Everyone's a winner. Send your money to me now.