“Is that the familiar sound of you ripping cardboard open, Jenny?”

Ffs. I thought I’d got away with it today.

My boy (the husband) is one of very few people on the planet that calls me by my full name and I could hear the curiosity in his voice peak as to what was in today’s box.

“Yes, love” I replied, trying not to be passive aggressive or actually outright aggressive, if I’m being perfectly honest with you.

“It’s Retinal. For my face”. “But you’ve tons of products in your room that you don’t use…I don’t get it.”

In that one sentence, my husband sums up succinctly why men are from Mars, and, us amazing beautiful creatures, women, are from Venus.

“I don’t want to have Botox and I’m getting fine lines” (fuck knows how, given I hide under a large brimmed hat in the sun, leaving one fella in Ibiza a couple of years ago, trying to seek out who I was under the hat and sunnies – but that’s another story for another day – all I must add to Wayne’s amusement).

“…So, in light of never wanting to stick a needle in my face…” (no judgement here, I’m not against it; I just know I’d end up looking like Jocelyn Wildenstein and it’s bad enough my Apple ID doesn’t recognise me sans makeup).

“… I thought I’d overhaul my skincare and well, here we are.”

“Yes love, I get that, but you’ve spent about £300 this month already. And that’s on skincare. How much is Botox?”

“Dunno, £300/400 every 6 months I think?”

“Get yoursen an appointment, it’ll be cheaper”.

Now I must stress for anyone that one that’s not familiar with Wayne, he couldn’t give two hoots if I’ve black or blonde hair. But, when it comes to this stuff, he’s a bit cautious when it comes to injecting stuff in your face. So this wasn’t a statement of encouragement!

Anyway, the point I’m making is that thanks to bloody Covid and now Wayne working at home permanently, he knows exactly what brands are what now. No longer can a bumper box arrive from Cult Beauty, or Liberty arrive (thanks Maria!) without his head peeking around his office door as I rip that box harder than the stripper throwing herself on the floor at Bill Murray’s feet in the masterpiece that was Lost In Translation. A little rise of the eyebrow, almost breaking his neck to see what’s in the box – god it breaks me out in a sweat.

If I could turn back time, in short, the one piece of advice I’d give myself if I could rewind the years back, is tell my self to bloody well get my skincare delivered to Sainsbury’s and collect every Sunday morning. Ripping that cardboard with as much vigour as I could, just minus the eye roll and judgement and the boy in complete darkness; he’d rather stick pins in his arse that delve around my room and see what delightful skincare awaits.

“Darling,” I purr; he’s never mad with me. He likes to pretend he’s mad, but he’s just a bloody pussy cat, “Do I not look good for all my skincare preventions?”

At that, he smiles, heads over to his coffee machine (and not the knife drawer I weirdly think – I swear I’m out of kilter compared to most peeps at times), and usual service resumes of calm in our home.

I head upstairs, laden with Medik8 and Sunday Riley in my arms and we both realise that despite men being from Mars and women from Venus, and you know what?

We’re both happy with that.

*Hits Cult Beauty up for the next mammoth order*