A joyful evening in Covent Garden with a new mate is temporarily halted by a sudden view of her underarm fuzz. Regular readers will know that I had a similar encounter during a women's meeting a few weeks back when I was left nonplussed, not just by the abundance of hirsute pits on display, but by the care with which the tresses had been combed. Tonight's follicular glories were curly - like pubic hair impishly transplanted by Puck during a fallout with Titania. I nearly inhaled my crayfish in horror. Moments like these are confusing for a feminist. How does one balance the personal with the political? Perhaps this is how Tony Blair feels when he sends his children across town to better schools than are found in Westminster? I finished my meal with a sense of deep guilt. I'm sure she wasn't judging me, and I look like a butterball turkey. What right did I have to judge her for sporting... merkins?