Perfect isn't constant. For some unfortunate women the desire for 'perfect' breasts has had tragic results. Ruptured French implants, leaking industrial silicone around the body is far from perfect.

Last week something happened to me on the train home from London. It was Friday the 13th. I wasn't attacked with a machete, by a bloke in a hockey mask called Jason, or anything. I was on the 16.42 from St. Pancras to Margate.

I rarely go to church and when I do, it's fairly reluctantly, but when I was a child growing up in Southampton, my mum dragged me along most Sundays. Occasionally, if she asks, I still keep her company at her local church, near to where I live. These days I drag my own children along but it still makes me feel a bit like a kid too. Like last Sunday.