TEENAGE girls have always been self-obsessed. When they are not thinking about themselves, which takes up approximately 23 hours and 57 minutes of their day, they are thinking about what other people think about them.

Are they too fat; are their boobs too small; is their hair too curly; are their fingers too stubby; is their nose too crooked; are their ears lopsided; is their bum too wibbly; are their lips too thin; are their knees too nobbly; is their laugh too loud? Questions of national importance such as these are never far from their thoughts.

And I should know, I was a self-obsessed teenager once. When I was 12 I didn't care what I looked like, which is probably a good thing as I had a tendency to look a bit tomboyish (I thought I was like George from the Famous Five, but I suspect I was more like wee Jimmy Krankie). But on the day I turned 13, everything changed.

I went to bed carefree and pretty happy with my skinny legs and kinky hair, and woke up a snarling mass of hormonal hang-ups. It wasn't so much Vicky Pollard as The Exorcist, complete with the foul mouth and the boils. Although I'm glad to report I decided to postpone signing up for the explosive bile vomiting option until I reached 16 and discovered a taste for Pernod and blackcurrant.

My metamorphosis wasn't unique. As the last chime of midnight echoed across the night sky marking the dawn of their 13th birthday, all my friends erupted into crabbier, snarlier versions of their former selves.

We all suddenly became obsessed with our looks. My close schools chums, Jo and Maria, and I would starve ourselves once a week to maintain our weight. We would eat nothing for a whole day, not so much as a Cheesy Wotsit, cheerfully ignoring the rumbles, groans and creaks our bodies emitted.

It goes without saying that for the rest of the week we stuffed ourselves on chips, crisps and cakes. I seem to remember we were particularly fond of vanilla slices. But we obviously thought that six days food spread over seven days was the only way to stay skinny enough to really make the most of our leggings and Frankie says... T-shirt combo.

We put pressure on ourselves, but there was little external pressure. Our mums and dads thought we were beautiful, our boyfriends were just happy to get their hands on a real, live girl and women in the limelight were more like carthorses than coathangers (Kim Wilde and the Bananarama girls were hardly willow the wisps were they?).

But now girls can't escape the pressure. Inappropriate role models are everywhere. On the TV, in the cinema, on the catwalk, in the newspapers and, now, in their school magazines.

BMI Healthcare has advertised its services - breast enhancement, tummy tucks, liposuction and nose jobs - in a private girls' school's annual magazine. Under a picture of a young woman in a low-cut top, it claims: "Your new look couldn't be in better hands."

I don't know about you, but I can feel that explosive bile rising again.

ARACHNOPHOBIA is no laughing matter. My life has been blighted by my insane fear of eight-legged beasties and other similarly scary scuttlers.

My beloved other half no longer bats an eye when I ask him to inspect gloves, shoes and bags for spider-shaped squatters. My children are used to seeing their mother leap on to the sofa, squealing like an It Girl at a handbag sale, at the merest glimpse of a spindly, black, hairy leg.

I'm always easy to spot at Tesco as I'm invariably the only one vigorously shaking the bananas to see if any spiders fall out. And my friends and relatives have learned to completely ignore my spasmodic explosions of undiluted terror whenever I catch a glimpse of tomato stalks - oh, come on, they look exactly like small, green killer spiders!

So you can imagine how thrilled I was to hear that scientists had discovered that one small injection could rid me of my arachnophobia forever.

My joy quickly evaporated, however, when I realised they were talking about injecting me and not the spiders.

I'm not a massive fan of capital punishment, but in their case I was willing to make an exception.