I'm not a fan of the Armando Iannucci show. Too clever-clever for its own good, it's not half as funny as it thinks it is. But last night's sketch about going to the barber's rang a few bells. I don't go the barber's anymore - I cut my own hair. It might have something to do with the horrific event of two years ago: I settled into the chair, politely answering the banal questions about holidays, and reeled with horror when he got out a pair of tiny clippers and trimmed my eyebrows!

Admittedly, I sometimes give my eyebrows a quick once-over myself, but the fact that someone else thought they needed it scared me. Sometimes I catch a quick look at myself in the mirror and see my dad - mad, bushy eyebrows and all. Although my eyebrows are dark brown, I get these incredibly thick, wiry blonde ones that, frankly, could take your eye out. "But I can't be an adult - I'm only 37."