Fiona Duff: Why plastic is not so fantastic

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Have you heard? The green shoots of economic recovery are apparently pushing through as determinedly as snowdrops in the park.

Needless to say I haven’t noticed much of this green activity. And that seems to be pretty much the same with nearly everyone I know.

So why on earth are so many people opting for cosmetic surgery?

Apparently there were 17 per cent more operations in 2013 than the year before and, despite the furore over breast implants made of mattress filling or some dodgy material, this is the most popular procedure. According to the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons (with the acronym of Baaps – yes, really) demand grew more last year than any time since the recession started.

Unbelievably, some clinics offer payment deals – by the time you’ve paid off your new knockers you’ll be needing some more, madam. Falsies don’t last forever; just like the new sparkly white teeth implants for the clinically insane or the hip replacements for those in real need, you’ll need to trade them in come 2030.

There are those who blame this rise on the “pornification” of our society, which might explain the inordinate rise in needless vaginal surgery. Young girls need to understand that not only are each of our bodies different but every part also has its use.

I remember once seeing a documentary in which a pneumatically boobed young female actually said that she thought breastfeeding was “unnatural”. For goodness sake, why do these appendages produce milk after childbirth? It’s not as though you can use it for a post-partum cappuccino pick-me-up.

So, if you’re in your twenties and feeling a bit rubbish but have a wad of dosh, don’t be a daftie and book in for surgery. Instead, take advantage of some great property deals around. A double upper will make you a lot happier than a bigger upper.

And if the economy is really on the rise it will be worth a lot more in a few years’ time than a couple of deflating beach balls in your bra.

The answer to hot topic of saunas

When it comes to licensed saunas I’m a bit of a Nimby. I know we ain’t going to be getting rid of the oldest profession in the foreseeable future, but I wouldn’t want one two doors down from my home.

My main concern is that the owners are invariably men who control the girls. Should the council not give licences only to co-operatives of these women and situate them on industrial estates where they won’t affect the neighbourhood, or alarm parents with young children, and also can be well lit at night?

I know, it’s a brilliant idea and far too sensible for our councillors ever to consider.

I can stretch to these prices . .

Every so often I go to my regular supermarket, whip out my loyalty card at the till and hey presto – a basket full of free food.

But since I discovered Poundstretcher in Shandwick Place, I’ve realised what a mug I have been.

Perhaps it’s not the most glamorous shop from which to be seen emerging, but my son’s favourite nasty noodles are on “special” offer at three for £2 at a store whose name I won’t mention, but it’s usually written in orange. At the glorious emporium of expediency they are 49p each. You don’t need a calculator or a degree in mathematics to know where to find the best buy.

Dog food is cheaper than chips and chocolate biscuits are deliciously affordable.

One friend bought a pack of seven lighters for £1

which did alarm me somewhat, but there’s no sign of singed eyebrows and Claire is now the most popular gal in the smoking shelter.

A Bridge too far?

I’VE come a bit late to Scandic noir. Having sat quietly as friends blethered about The Killing or Borgen and watched totally flummoxed as other programmes referenced the storylines, I decided to get around to watching The Bridge.

It is wonderfully bleak; Saga is not only the name of the main character but the length of the series.

Ten episodes on one storyline – can you imagine a British programme maker having the courage to do such a long series?

Of course, it does bring about its problems – at times I was so confused about who had done what and was related to whom.

Anyway, having spent so much of my time glued to the screen I had hoped for a denouement which would satisfy the time, not to mention brain power, that I had put into The Bridge.

But, no, there was a shadowy figure who remained anonymous. Does this mean that I have to sit through another ten programmes to find out his identity?