IF Trinny and Susannah ever jumped out of my wardrobe and started twanging my bra strap, I'd knock their horsy teeth out.

I have often wondered while watching their What Not To Wear show if the director has had to cut and re-shoot the bit where the carthorse and the toothpick surprise their latest victim, erasing all photographic evidence of the poor woman pummelling them to the ground and beating them about the face with their own strings of annoyingly over-sized beads.

Surely not all the participants have reacted well. There must have been at least one loose cannon who decided against burying her head in her hands and shrieking and opted for brutal violence instead.

I just know that if any of my friends volunteered me for the What Not To Wear treatment, I would not be polite.

There would be swearing, there may be yelling and I can't rule out actual bloodshed. And once I had finished with Trin and Sooz (or their replacements, the substitute carthorse and toothpick), I would move quickly on to my so-called friends while the iron - and my temper - was still hot.

This, then, gives you some indication of how overjoyed I was to be Trinny-and-Susannah'd in the pub last week. There I was minding my own business, happily sipping my JD and diet coke and trying to ignore the evil stares of the teenage barmaid (my friend had flummoxed her by asking for a Bloody Mary), when suddenly they were on me like a tag team of rabid fashionistas.

"So what are you going to wear?" asked one while eyeing my jeans, T-shirt and boots combo with obvious distaste.

"You really can't wear those. And you really need to sort out your hair. Have you thought about going darker. This, what-shall-we-call-it, copper colour just isn't working."

"And what about make-up?" said the other. "You've got to wear make-up (I was actually wearing foundation, blusher, mascara and lip-gloss, but that obviously wasn't enough). You don't have to look like Coco the Clown, but this Corpse Bride thing isn't working either."

The carthorse and the toothpick hadn't actually been hiding under the table waiting for me to waltz in for my customary post-tap dancing beverage, it was my friends who jumped me (in a purely metaphorical sense, of course, although I did feel a bit bruised afterwards).

I happened to mention that I would be doing some filming in London for a television programme this week (hark at me, I'll be having dinner at The Ivy with Noel Edmonds next) and needed a good haircut. Could they recommend somewhere that wouldn't leave me looking like a bad Ena Sharples impersonator.

It was a simple enough question, but the answer went on for the best part of an hour. One tried to persuade me to have a make-up makeover, which was almost persuasive until she began praising the cosmetic prowess of a mutual acquaintance who I think has a face like a polished Satsuma.

The other launched into my hair, which is not a good idea at the best of times as it is generally the same consistency as an unkempt hedge and difficult to dislodge yourself from once entwined.

Then came the coup de grace: my eyebrows.

"If you do nothing else, do something about that," said fashionista numero uno, while I tried to frown at her with my Yeti-like mono-brow. "Television is not very forgiving you know. Which reminds me, you can borrow my magic knickers if you like."

Casting aside the image of me in second-hand (second-bum?) pants, the other half of the tag team leered at me across the table, peering intently at the giant caterpillar that I appear to have been inadvertently carrying about on my face for thirty-odd years.

"Blimey," she said unpromisingly. "I hadn't even noticed that before."

So that is why I'm sitting here today with freshly plucked eyebrows (one of the fashion tag team yanked them out for me half-an- hour ago), I've got a hair appointment tomorrow and I'm in a complete panic about what to wear for my telly debut.

Never mind magic knickers, I need a blummin' miracle.