I had to buy a new toothbrush this evening. Something with harder bristles than I'm used to, sturdy enough to scrape out the filaments of the raw meat I'd had for lunch and that had lodged like unwanted house-guests between my bared fangs. Been that kind of day at work, you see, when only raw meat would do me.

Buying it was easy; just a matter of picking something that look liked a miniaturised deck brush, pay the till, then go.

Leaving Boots I noticed one of the Beauticians studiously thumbing her way down a stock list. Tick off this, tick off that. She was very busy.

It's got to be a legacy of her job that she was doing this, quite unselfconsciously, with her face straight on to one of those mirrors that always, but always, explode every skin imperfection a million fold.

To me there is nothing more ego-depressing than facing up to the harsh truths of the mirror, and in the morning, it's even worse. Less a face, more a cracked paving stone.

But in their line of work, that must go straight of the window. It has to.

To end on a Sex in the City style note: can someone look in the mirror and no longer see them self ? Can you become invisible?