I'm standing in Superdrug behind a man in the queue whose hands are full with products bearing the words MAX and SPORT and POWER emblazoned over them that manufacturers put on male grooming products to avoid any hapless male accidentally picking up something aimed towards a woman and setting off the shop's inbuilt screaming woofter siren, when my eye is caught by a new and previously unnoticed display of brightly coloured glittery objects coming from the aisle to my left. Thinking of nothing but the possibility of twinkling purple nail polishes and eyeshadow palettes in ten shades of flourescent yellow that I'll covet but never wear, I absentmindedly abandon my discounted packet of Tampax and Mars Bar to their fate on an unfriendly shelf and wander over. I have fallen into a cunning merchandiser's trap, however; the display so enticing in it's sparkle and shine is not make up but expensive skin care. Rows upon rows of little pots and tubes and jars, wrapped in layers of silver and gold and brilliant white and catching the early afternoon sun.

This is unfamiliar territory for me, who just showers and leaves the house in the mornings because, well, asking anything more complicated than getting out of bed is impossible at that time and if the skin on my face is still attached to my head when I wake up then I'm happy. I feel myself far from home with sticky palms, like a man going into a mucky book shop uncomfortably close to where his wife works. Nonetheless, I remember the time that I doubled over and howled with mirth for twenty minutes when an skin cream advert on the telly said 'boswelox' and the stony, uncomprehending faces of the silent people who watched me do this and decide to treat it as a potential learning experience. I might just discover a new and horrifying facial problem that I was never aware I had up til now and its miraculous remedy all in one go. I picked up the first tube before me.

Superdrug 'Results' Q10 Eyecream with 'Skintelligence'. Already I can feel the laughter bubbling up from somewhere around my spleen and threatening to ruin the whole experiment, but for the sake of scientific investigation and the possible facial deformity that up until now everybody's been too kind to tell me about I quash my sniggering. Directions for use: smooth gently under delicate eye area for smooth radiant eye contour. Smooth radiant eye contour. Yes, I think I'd like that. At least, I think I would. I'm not entirely sure what it is. I might have it already. I squint up at the mirrored strip above the shelves. Well, I certainly don't have a lumpy, dull eye contour but then I've never seen anyone who has. Maybe some contours are more radiant than others. At the far end of the aisle I see a woman stacking Pampers and think about asking her to take a look, but eventually decide against it.

At the expensive end of the aisle I find Jose Eisenberg Firming Remodelling Trio-Molecular® Masque and am immediately reassured. I don't know about you, but whenever I see something with random French spelling it never fails to make me think that this an extremely classy product worth every penny of the £34 price tag. Active ingredients: ruscus extract (favours the microcirculation of the blood), horse tail extract (draining), phytosomes containing escine (astringent) and sweet orange oil extract (promotes the synthesis of mucopolysaccharides). Well. They didn't use the French in vain, that's all I can say. Promises a 'turbo charged beauty boost', and which of us could not use a nitrous oxide button on the Segway of our faces from time to time?

I carry on like this for ten minutes or so, picking a jar or pot up at random and feeling my face for significantly unattractive yet easily correctable faults until suddenly I come across my old nemesis: L’Oréal Paris Wrinkle De-Crease with Boswelox™. 'A breakthrough phyto-complex that combines a power dose of boswellia serrata extract and manganese, which help reduce the appearance of lines caused by facial micro-contractions.' But it's no good. My facial micro-contractions have turned major and vocal and there seems to be a security guard eyeing up me and my guffawing with unseemly interest. I am forced to abandon my quest for aesthetic perfection and rescue my abandoned feminine hygiene products and my senses and make for the door.