IDECIDED I was in need of a little spring cleaning. You know, fake tan, eyebrow shaping etc, etc, etc. My skin still clung on to that deathly pallor that winter provides and, with summer just around the corner -- gosh this sounds like an ad for sun cream -- I wanted to glow a bit.

My fake tan was a huge success -- so much so a colleague asked if I'd been on holiday. I felt better already.

And it was soooo easy. The only difficulty being I couldn't shower/wash/swim/bathe for six hours so I had to bath my poor son while wearing rubber gloves.

I believe this may have had a lasting affect on him and he might seek psychiatric help in later years but, hey, this is the price we pay for a J-Lo glow girls.

Talking of bathing my son, my next attempt at "scrubbing up" involved some very long false nails and yet another "bath time experience" for my offspring.

You see, I've never had beautiful long talons like my mother. My nails have always been short and unable to grow past the fingertip stage.

So I decided to invest in some do-it-yourself stick ons. And stick on they certainly did. The glue supplied to stick nail on nail would do a sterling job of adhering the girders of the Forth Bridge together. I finished my handiwork at around 3pm and by 3.05pm had come to the conclusion that women who have long nails also have cooks, cleaners, nannies and someone to fasten their jeans for them.

I was completely immobilised and, once again, bathtime for my son was like a watery remake of Nightmare on Elm Street with my claw-like talons battling with the soap. He screamed blue murder when he saw me trying vainly to get a grip on the shampoo bottle. I soon realised long nails were not for me -- God knows how I'd have tackled typing -- so I decided they had to come off.

I checked the small print on the package which told me to "soak my fingertips in either warm, soapy water or nail varnish remover for a couple of minutes". This was at 7.45pm. By 11.15pm my fingertips had almost been dissolved by the remover but the false nails still clung on for dear life. My poor husband helped with the tugging and pulling of each nail while I screamed "you're pulling my real nails off too".

By midnight we'd resorted to the lighter fuel -- on my nails of course but, yes, we did feel like necking it, and had managed to prise off nine of the blighters.

I still sported one the day after which stubbornly refused to budge. How does that phrase go? Oh yes, never again.