OK, I admit it: I need a Doctor. I’m sorry to jump on the bandwagon – or into the TARDIS – and join the general Who-mania that’s recently descended but I simply can’t help it: I’ve fallen for the geeky, eccentricity of a certain Time Lord. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that it’s not just the short trousers of the Doctor (played by the unexpectedly attractive Matt Smith) nor even his highly advanced sonic screwdriver that does it for me.

Admittedly, it’s probably a little to do with his humour and charisma but it may well have a lot more to do with his compassion, and – yes, I’ll say it – his absolute kindness. Now, I know that kindness is not the stuff of great Hollywood romances.

Rhett did not get to show Scarlett how she should be kissed – and often – by being the utter gent.

Hell, Danny certainly didn’t win Sandy in Grease by being polite, although his overly-friendly leather pants probably had a lot to do with it.

But there is something to be said for a good man, isn’t there? Don’t get me wrong, I hurtled through my teenage years drawn to the bad guys: the naughty, cheeky boys at school, then the cocky, loud and vaguely angry rogues at college and work.

I think part of me thought they were the carefree ones – the guys who didn’t give a toss.

I also liked the promise of seeing their softer side once they would (if only they ever would) fall for me.

Until one day I realised that – in the majority of cases – the ‘bad guys’ weren’t carefree at all: they were angry because they were insecure.

They were loud because they were afraid of not being heard.

They were cocky because they were making up for… stuff.

What takes real strength, real self-assurance is the confidence that often manifests in the guys who were picked on because they weren’t naughty enough. The ones who got laughed at for wearing short trousers.

The boys who were too odd and eccentric. Basically, had The Doctor gone to my school, he would’ve been in the geek crew: the kind guy I spoke to about the bad boys, the one who listened, the one who remembered my mum’s name and asked after her and saved me a seat in the canteen.

However, probably because he knows what it’s like to be picked on, he grew into a guy who never feels the need to shout, or hit, or bully someone weaker than him.

Ok, ok, so the Doctor’s time-travelling TARDIS has a little bit to do with my love for him.

Access to the whole of time and space with the ability to change history and my previous calorie intake? I’m in.

Plus the fact that he’s saved the universe a few thousand times. And his cheeky wink. And his dickie-bow. And did I mention his all-knowing, fully-rotational, sonic screwdriver? But yes, his kindness. Ahhh, his kindness…

 

There’s apparently an increasing trend for women to have fake fur eyebrows glued over their natural brows, in an attempt to emulate the likes of Cara Delevingne or Elizabeth Taylor of old.

It is true that strong eyebrows can make a face, however, they weren’t always cool.

I remember being about 13 and taking hold of some tweezers for the very first time.

I’d heard that women were supposed to groom their eyebrows into thin arches, and I wanted in to that elusive group called ‘the womanhood’.

I was armed. I was ready. Fast forward two minutes of painful and fruitless tugging and I realised what many women had realised before me – that womanhood can be a painful affair, involving seemingly futile activities with limited rewards. Initiation into the womanhood often comes by the path of hair removal and embarrassing secretions.

The 13-year-old me furrowed her overly thick brows for a few seconds before pushing aside the tweezers.

I spied a lone razor basking on the edge of the bath and seized it. This would be better, I told myself. This would yield similar results, I thought, with much less time, effort, and pain.

Indeed, I naively questioned – why weren’t all women shaving their brows? Had they all missed a trick? Was there something fundamentally stupid about the rest of woman-kind?

No, it turns out. I was the fundamentally stupid one.

Twenty seconds later – with half-extinguished, lopsided eyebrows – I realised precisely why no woman shaves her eyebrows. I looked like Lady Gaga doing her best Marilyn Manson impression.

I took hold of my brown eyeliner and filled in the colossal gaps, genuinely believing that nobody would notice. They noticed.

For days – weeks, even – people were asking what on earth I’d done to my face or enquiring where exactly my eyebrows had disappeared to, as though they’d upped and left by their own volition. I was so embarrassed I think I probably had a cover story – yes, I nodded solemnly: the dog ate them.

So on some level I do understand the desire for fake eyebrows: in the before and after shots, the model looked amazingly better with fuller, darker brows and it brought back the shame of my eyebrows’ brief holiday.

But honestly, unless you really need them – for example, if you’ve ever gotten as enthusiastic as me with a razor – I don’t know why you’d choose two carpet samples for your forehead. There’s a time and a place for a bad Charlie Chaplin impersonation – and the Christmas party ain’t it.