HAVE you noticed how posh kids have bigger hair than ordinary little bods?

I saw a neat crocodile of extremely well-to-do little chaps and chapesses trotting under Monk Bar the other day. All were in super smart cherry red blazers (despite the blazing heat), with freshly-pressed grey shorts and shoes so sensible they probably come with stabilisers.

From the neck down they looked pristine, a real credit to their parents and school. But from the neck up, they looked like someone had raided the local cats' home, dragged the poor moggies through several hedges and then jammed the bedraggled creatures on their heads.

The boys looked like they were the result of a strange genetic experiment in which the DNA of Boris Johnson and Ken Dodd had been shaken together vigorously in a test tube by an evil (and bitterly bald) scientist.

The girls looked neater in comparison, but their hair was still monstrously large with thick wedges of fringe and headbands holding back great tidal waves of curls. In their case, the evil scientist obviously put a splash of Amy Winehouse and a dash of Cousin It from the Addams Family in his test tube.

I have no idea why posh kids have such big hair. Maybe it's because they tend to wear more hats and need the extra cushioning.

All I know is that you could spot a posh kid at 100 paces if they inadvertently wandered through the gates of my son's school.

Most ordinary little chaps look like they've just joined the Marines. In my son's class, the style seems to be "blade two on the back and sides, mate, but leave a bit on top for me product". They are all into their styling gel, mud, putty, whatever, but their hair still fails to hit the heights of posher kids.

You could put them in the cleanest blazer, the sharpest looking pair of shorts and the most sensible shoes known to man (Clarks is thinking of launching a new line under that name apparently), and they would still stand out from the hoity-toity crowd like a slightly grubby sore thumb.

The only people my "posh hair" theory doesn't work for are the fellas in our royal family. Wills and Harry's hair has always been a bit on the thin side. They can backcomb and fluff all they want, but both have got about as much chance of having a full head of hair by the time they hit 30 as Prince Philip has of being featured on Heat's "hunk of the week" page.

Maybe they are so posh they don't actually need hair anymore. Then again it could just be all the in-breeding.


My mum has a friend who has called her Geraldine for ten years. My mum's name is not and has never been Geraldine, but she's too polite to say anything.

The truth is that there is a very small window of opportunity to put someone right when they get your name wrong. Unless you do it straight away, you're stuck with being called Geraldine for the rest of your life.

Which is why I had to jump in early last week - with both boots on - when a chap managed to mangle my name and showed no sign of backtracking.

For some reason (mental illness probably), he assumed my surname was Wood and my first name was Johay.

The first time he said it I thought it was just my hearing playing up. But when he phoned again with a distinct "Hi, Johay", I knew something had to be done.

So I started bombarding him with emails, signing off with a definite "Jo" in an ostentatiously large font. He got the message in the end, but we were both left so embarrassed by the whole hoohah that there is now no alternative; we will just have to ignore each other for the rest of our lives.