To Brighton, for kissing lessons with a hairy man In the mid-1990s, when every phone box in London was littered with lurid calling cards for prostitutes, I found an ad with a difference. It simply read: "Kissing lessons." I loved this for two reasons. First, it struck me that it was very public-spirited for any woman to volunteer single-handedly to rectify the necking technique of the British male. But it was also a funny riposte to the notion that working girls would do anything for money except kiss. That, as Julia Roberts explained in Pretty Woman, is far too intimate. Either way, back here in the thorny world of unpaid trysts, many women believe it's easier to feign enthusiasm for lacklustre sex than for sub-standard snogging. After all, you can always pretend, by cover of night, that you're bedding George Clooney; but if the wrong person kisses you, it's like having Ridley Scott's Alien wrapped round your face. The strong emotions aroused by smooching were evident when I recorded a documentary on the subject for Radio 4 (on air today at 11am). Women interviewees were as likely to remember their worst kiss as their best one. The dread "washing machine mouth" of teenage parties aroused particular scorn. So you can imagine my horror when my producer suggested it might jazz things up a bit if I undertook a stage-managed kissing lesson with a total stranger. As I pointed out, the last time I kissed a man who was unknown to me was at a student party in 1990, and I was dizzy with drink. In fact, I can't recall meeting any Briton who has kissed an unfamiliar fellow citizen sober. Stone-cold intimacy is not this nation's strong point, and I was being asked to try it at 11.30am in Brighton on a windy Wednesday, in front of a sound technician, my producer and our performance coach, Jeremy Stockwell. Adding grist to my woes, the man they had picked as my fellow kissee - a sweet-natured chap called Dave - had a beard. Now, I have no objection to facial hair on other people's partners, and I understand there are parts of Tasmania where people relish such things, but I have never willingly embraced whiskers. After an hour of Stockwell gently prodding us through relaxation exercises that made thumbscrews look like sanctuary, Dave and I did the dirty: sober and hirsute, as God intended. Now all I need to do is kiss a bearded lady and my tally of life's more recherché experiences will be complete. My eight-year-old's birthday has raised one of life's existential issues: to buy a trampoline or not to buy a trampoline. That is not the question, so much as the beginning of an almighty row. There have been tantrums, sulks and kicked furniture - and goodness knows what my husband will do when (and if) the wretched thing arrives. You might imagine the issue here is safety, but you would be wrong. It is the visual blight the "hideous giant bouncy child bin" will wreak upon our small garden that pains him. My spouse's beloved rose bushes will be obscured, and "the last vestige of sanity left to me in this life" spoilt. You need the wisdom of Solomon to deal with the competing demands of a 58-year-old horticulturist and two small boys intent on bouncing. If my body is found later this year under the patio, you'll know why. The main impact of men living longer (my sons" generation are now predicted to outlive female peers) will be the radical change in the personality of old people's homes. At the minute they often resemble a bingo game crossed with a knees-up: lots of cheery old women gossiping and cooing at visiting children. In 80 years" time, I presume they will be stuffed with cantankerous codgers, coughing up phlegm and moaning about their knees, the weather, the food, modern music, that young whippersnapper the PM and, oh, everything. Carers may need to invest in ear plugs.