It's all freakin' mathematics.

Maths is bloody everywhere. You can't escape it. As someone who struggled to get a B on the intermediate paper at GCSE, namely because of a teacher who distracted me from my studies (doodles) by pointing out that I had "something on my face, just there, no, there" (yes it is a sodding spot, thank you kindly for pointing that gleamer out, because I was, as ever, completely unaware of it's lurking presence), this is not good news.

Open any magazine you like (think Grazia, Look, Company, Glamour, the list goes on) and you will find a sleek page inscribed with the words "Fashion Maths". Now, as a twenty something year old gal this is old news. I mean c'mon, we all know about the rules: tit no tan, if ya gonna flash a peep of your pups then your bottom half should be suitably covered. It isn't rocket science, ya hear Goodger, Fairs and Simms!?

Then there is food, calorie counting, fat firming. As I see it, calories don't exist, what you can't see isn't worth worrying about in this case. I mean, bring me a calorie in the palm of your hand and then maybe I'll consider counting the buggers, until then I shant.

Even adverts are mathematic in their nature. Think Jaffa Cakes (the one gram of fat "cake" of dreams, it's a bloody biscuit), half moon, full moon, humm maths! Just stick them in a bath with David Beckham and the beasts will sell, trust me, no one has ever needed to understand algebra anyway so stop trying eh!? 'N' equals 'nut ache', nothing more.

Then there is money. No prizes for pointing out that with money comes a certain amount of mathematics people!

But what is more is the mathematics of relationships. Chasing, flirting, keeping them mean to keep them keen (doesn't work pal) Will we ever escape it!? You meet a chap/lass, a few Jagers and a cheeky fumble later (tonsil tennis, take your mind out of the gutter please) and you have parted ways. Now I don't know about you but, when I am in a shop and see a tee that takes my fancy I don't feel up the fabric, try it on for size then brush it off only to come back two days later to make it mine. I just bloody buy it! By all means try before you buy, in both cases, but if you like it you like it, swipe your card and win your goods. Do we really need to fanny * obligatory sniggers at the f word* about waiting two days after a meeting to text that lucky lad/lass!? I say, in true suffragette fashion, sod it. If you want it, win it. Let's brush off this 'the tortoise wins the race' bullshit and hit the dating scene with force. After all, whilst you can edit your bb picture, you can't edit yourself.

Mines a Gin and Tonic.