Beautiful Guru turned to me the other day and said my skin looked amazing, and what was I using?

Olay Regenerist, I burbled excitedly, thrilled to share my new discovery. Their youth serum and moisturiser (after the whole Jurlique cleansing routine, naturally). For the record, my skin has never looked more radiant.

‘You’re my cheap guru,’ she laughed. ‘You always know the best cheap products.’

And I am ashamed that it is true. I am addicted to drugstores, and the products found within. I’d rather spend my money on a basket of Olay and Aveeno, than a small pot of Creme de la Mer (which, frankly, I never much liked. It was far too greasy for my skin).

I will occasionally spend money on products, particularly anything to do with the eyes because I am obsessed with eye products. I will spend just about anything on a product that promises to magically disappear the dark circles and puff. Thus far, Patricia Wexler does an anti-puff gel that’s pretty fab. (and yes, for all those who are about to give me the secret tip of Preparation H, I have tried it, and not only does it not seem to work terribly well, it smells ghastly).

Sometimes I think I ought to be a bit more high-maintenance. I ought to be the kind of woman who has her hair blown out twice a week, gets regular manicures, only uses Shiseido and La Prairie on her skin. Isn’t this what bestselling authors do, for heaven’s sake?

But honestly, I just can’t be bothered, plus, I’m English. I may be an American citizen now, and I may have Smalls who speak with strong American accents that depress me enormously (I am not MOM. I am MUMMY, okay?), but despite taking the girl out of England, you cannot take the English out of the girl. We don’t believe in paying other people to do things for us. Why on earth would we, if we can do it ourselves?

I want to change the color of my hair? Off I go for a packet of Henna, making a horrific mess all over the bathroom for the next three hours. My legs need waxing? I’d far rather buy the wax strips and attempt it myself, sticking myself to the bathroom counter in the process.

And of course, I am always pushed for time, and have, as Beloved said, “the patience of a fruit fly”. I just haven’t got time to be pampered.

So I shall continue hanging out in my local drugstore, where, rather worryingly, just like Cheers, everyone knows my name…

John Mayer recently said, in the interview that may have ended his career, something along the lines of Jennifer Aniston not understanding the importance of social media like Twitter and Facebook, and thinking she was still living in the nineties. Don’t quote me on it, but I’m pretty sure it was something like that, and there seemed to be some disdain behind the words - what sleb did not understand the glories of Twitter? Who wouldn’t want to keep in touch with their fans and let them know their thoughts on, well, pretty much everything.

I have been addicted to Twitter the past year or so. I love the immediacy, that it’s quick, and easy, and - I tell myself on a regular basis - a great way of keeping in touch with my fans and staying connected.

But I’m beginning to get a little bored, and I’m starting to wonder just how important it is. The truth is, Jennifer Aniston doesn’t need to know about the glories of Twitter. She’s Jennifer Aniston, for God’s sake. I can’t imagine any serious A-listers updating Twitter to let their fans know they’re bummed because their limo driver is 15 minutes late to take them to the oscars.

Other than some brilliant tweeters: @stephenfry is the first that comes to mind, it is all starting to feel a little self-indulgent. You throw a pithy comment out there, and then check every few minutes to see who’s lovin’ me now? I am beginning to feel that Twitter is for the deeply insecure, and musicians who only open their mouths to shove their feet more firmly in there.

There is also the question of just how much do you reveal. I am still addicted to the English papers which I read online, and am constantly amazed at how people in the public eye will write double-page spreads on intensely personal subjects: their ongoing therapy to try and find a soulmate; why they have spent their lives hating their mother; how their marriage is on the rocks.

Not that I haven’t done it. You think, when a book is coming out, or a movie, or a TV show, that you have to do anything and everything you can to publicise it, but I’m really not sure how a first-person account of a deeply personal crisis is going to help sell extra books, or extra tickets, or bring in extra viewers.

My worst ever was writing a piece, for my first book, on being a passion junkie, the original working title of Straight Talking. The editor phoned me up, bubbling with excitement, and said they wanted me reclining in red satin on a chaise longue, surrounded by male models bearing grapes, champagne, etc etc.

I shuddered with horror.

When I said I wasn’t comfortable, she said that without that specific picture, she wouldn’t run the piece, and so, miserably, I showed up to a photo studio and did the picture, and felt like a fool. I was a much bigger girl at the time, and truth be told, I didn’t feel elegant or glamorous. I felt like a giant fat strawberry, and my misery was clear in the photograph.

I am learning to say no, and I am learning to think very carefully about what I write, and what I tweet, and whether, in fact, it is worth it. I love this blog, and here I spend time thinking about what to write, rather than coming up with a thoughtless, off-the-cuff remark, or an opinion that may hurt someone.

Oh if only others put the same thought into their tweeting. Are you listening, John Mayer?

Yesterday I was honored to be welcomed as a guest performer in a production of The Vagina Monologues at The Westport Country Playhouse.

It was an extraordinary day, to join this cast of women who had come together sometime late last year, and to be welcomed as one of their own.

I had never seen The Vagina Monologues. I had always heard how wonderful it is, but truth be told, I have become somewhat of a prude in my old age, and I wasn’t entirely sure why I would go to see a show about, well, you know… (And for those of you wondering whether this is the same woman who wrote the bathtub scene in Mr Maybe, the answer is yes. But can we just not talk about it, ‘kay?)

I said yes because I think it is important to stretch yourself, to move out of your comfort zone, to do things that you might otherwise not do, for how else do you grow, how else do you change, how else can you learn?

Reading the script - my monologue was the last one, written by Eve Ensler herself, about witnessing the birth of her Grandchild - I was struck by the stories, the honesty, and okay, yes, I’ll say it, the sheer explicitness of the piece. Who were these women who were volunteering to stand on a stage and moan orgasmically? Were they not embarrassed? Where did they find the courage?

Former actresses, I presumed, would make up the cast. Women who gave up their acting careers to have children, who are yearning once again to be on the stage.

I could not have been more wrong. A few were, admittedly, performers, actresses, dancers. But the vast majority were women who just wanted to help raise money for our local Domestic Violence Crisis Centre in Norwalk, who wanted to connect with other women, who wanted to connect to the greater community.

And these women were amazing. Breath-taking. Words can hardly describe how I felt, watching this show from the wings.

I did what I do. I walked on a stage, I sat down, and I read. But these other women? These women who do not spend their lives walking across stages in front of an audience, many of whom were stepping on a stage for the first time in their lives? They were incredible. Empowering. Awe-inspiring.

It made me proud. Proud to live in this community, proud to be a woman, and okay, yes, I’ll say it, proud to have a vagina. It was one of the most moving pieces of theater I have seen, and I urge you, if you haven’t seen it, try. It may change you in ways you cannot imagine…

I have long spoken about the joys of hitting my forties and finding peace, but just the other day I was hit by another epiphany: that it wasn’t just finding peace that has made my life so happy - but comfort.

For many years I longed for comfort. To be comfortable. To be comforted. I longed to feel at home in the world. Throughout my thirties I discovered my need for tactile comfort. I would pass by the scratchy cotton sweaters, and the stiff shiny pants, heading straight for delicious angora and cosy cashmere. I needed to feel cocooned.

My home was, and is, filled with huge, squashy sofas, soft throws that you can wrap up in if you feel cold, baskets of logs ready to be thrown on the fire to fill the room with warmth.

I am, finally, entirely comfortable with the people in my life, no room anymore for drama, or toxic friends, or people who cannot be trusted. My life is filled with people I adore, with whom I feel safe.

And mostly, most importantly, I realise that I have found comfort in my skin. I look in the mirror and like who I am, like who I see, and accept the woman I have become.

I have seen too many women wrapped up in having the perfect house, the biggest jewelry, the most expensive clothes. I have been there, I have lived with that insecurity, and it is a relief to have grown out of the need to please, or impress anyone else. Today, I wander around Mitchells, the local designer store, and sigh over the beautiful clothes. Most of the time, I do not buy them, because I have found I am entirely happiest in jeans and a T-shirt, and if you’re going to judge me by the clothes I wear or the car I drive (Land Cruiser, but secretly desperate for a Chevy Tahoe, then you are not someone who should be in my life.

If happiness is indeed not getting what you want but wanting what you have got, I am blessed to be able to say that for today, I am truly happy (Even more so now that my edits are entirely done, and the Advance Reading Copies are being printed as I type. JOY!).

Watch this space for a forthcoming competition, and be first to read Promises to Keep. All I ask is that when you read it, make sure you’re curled up in your comfiest chair, with your fluffiest slippers on your feet…

This weekend I am celebrating V-Day by appearing in a performance of The Vagina Monologues, at The Westport Country Playhouse. Join me, Dani Shapiro, and a host of other wonderful women, reading the classic Eve Ensler monologues.

Hope to see you all there!