WAKE, bathe, wash hair, style hair, apply make-up, put on clothes and add accessories.

These are not, perhaps unsurprisingly, the seven ages of man, but are instead the seven stages of woman.

According to somebody or other who really should think about getting a proper job, most women complete this seven-stage routine before leaving the house in the morning.

Emma, a 32-year-old interior designer who is separated from her daughters' father, claims she needs two hours to get everything done from the first yawn to the last earring. Sylvia, on the other hand, only spends 15 minutes in the shower and a further 25 minutes perfecting her clothes and make-up, as she lives in a shared house and doesn't have limitless access to the bathroom.

Hershey spends most of her 45-minute routine on her make-up, but she's a magazine beauty editor, so we'll let her off. Frances, meanwhile, likes to concentrate at least half of her 35-minute morning routine on cleansing, scrubbing and moisturising.

Hang on a minute - 35 minutes? Three-quarters of an hour? TWO HOURS??

Since when did anyone, never mind a single, interior designing, mother-of-two, have time in the morning to spend two hours putting on a face that won't scare the world witless.

Most days I'm lucky if I can manage the seven steps between the fridge and the kettle. If I had a two-hour, seven-step beauty regime to squeeze in as well, the kids would never get to school, the cats wouldn't get fed and I wouldn't hit a single deadline (I'm trying to ignore the nagging suspicion that the editor is currently muttering yeah, so what's new?').

Don't believe me? Well, here is my own seven-step morning beauty routine, which takes precisely 15 minutes and still leaves me in a mad dash to get the kids through the school gates before the headteacher slams them in our faces with a satisfying (for her) clang.

Wake: I just about manage this step, although I have been known to sleepwalk through entire mornings (I seem to recall that I have written this column on more than one occasion while still technically unconscious).

Bathe: I repeatedly splash cold water on my face in a vain attempt to wash away last night's sleep and dislodge the unsightly lumps of yesterday's mascara that cling to my lids like limpets to a rock pool.

Wash hair: You're kidding, aren't you? My hair is so dry and wiry that if I wash it more than once a week I end up looking like a cross between Russell Brand (yes, I know that would make me Jo Brand) and a pan scourer.

Style hair: If I can get a comb through it, it's a good hair day.

Apply make-up: I've still got yesterday's mascara on, so why bother?

Put on clothes: Even I can complete this stage. Although I have been known to leave the house with my top on inside out.

Add accessories: Does a small child clinging to my leg and begging for a bowl of Frosties count as an accessory? If not, I haven't got any.

Ta-dah! That's me ready to face the world.

Unfortunately, I'm not sure the world is always quite so well prepared.


MANY thanks to everyone who answered my urgent request for more information on haslet in last week's column (I bet those of you who didn't read it are kicking yourselves now).

Special thanks go to my fellow school gate lurker and inside woman on Asda's deli counter, Suzanne, who informed me and a surprisingly large group of other interested mums that haslet is a pork-based product, using the heart, liver and other edible bits and bobs of whichever hog happens to be passing.

The viscera is apparently chopped and reformed with spices into a braised loaf. Yum, yum.

So, that's the haslet crisis sorted. Now, what should we do about Iraq?