WHY don't we have a pamper night?" my friend suggested.
"It will be a lot cheaper than going to a beauty salon."
Christine nodded enthusiastically and added: "We could have some wine and nibbles and make a night of it."
"Sounds great," I answered. Sorted.
"I'm good at doing facials," Mae offered.
"And I'm great at painting nails." Angela enthused. "I've got loads of lovely nail polish colours."
"I've got brilliant hair oil for split ends," I proudly announced. "And I'm good at trimming hair too."
"I'll bring my foot spa," Christine joined in.
So, prior to our beauty evening, I called in at Tesco and on reaching the checkout, the girl scanned my shopping.
"Oh, a nice bottle of wine," she bellowed for the whole queue to hear. "And a facepack. Night in for one is it"?
"No, no," I said in an equally loud voice. "The girls are coming round."
"Don't like facepacks myself," the checkout girl informed the queue. "They always bring me out in spots."
While packing my bag I thought 'There's no way she's working on commission'.
An hour into our beauty night we all had a glass of wine, our hair was slathered in coconut oil and we each had a different coloured facepack on when suddenly my door bell chimed.
"Who on earth can that be?" I groaned.
With my scary white face I reluctantly answered the door to find my daughter and six-year-olds Eilidh and Taylor, who were highly amused as they scanned the room - which now resembled a scene from Thriller.
"What are you all doing, Nana Bell?" Eilidh asked, struggling to see the point in it all.
"We're having a pamper night to make ourselves look beautiful," Christine replied confidently.
Quick as a flash Taylor interrupted. "Ha ha. I'll crack the jokes," and was quickly escorted out of the room.
All the time I could feel my face getting tighter and tighter as my face pack turned to cement.
Angela, the nail expert who was on her third glass of wine piped up. "Right who's next?"
"Me," replied Christine. "I'll go for that one," she decided, pointing to a pillar box red coloured nail polish.
"No problem," said Angela, sloshing down the dregs of her wine.
Meanwhile, after washing off our face packs, Mae was busy applying our luxury moisturiser.
I had only just sunk my tired feet into the foot spa when I caught sight of Christine's newly-painted bright red toenails - which looked as though they had been run over by a steam roller.
The red nail polish was everywhere except on her nails.
"Who's next?" slurred Angela.
"I'll give the nail polish a miss," I shouted to Angela, who by now could barely chew her own nails, never mind paint someone else's.
"Could you trim my fringe?" Mae asked me as she slapped on the last of my face cream.
"No bother," I agreed and soon started trimming Mae's oiled hair.
"Take off a bit more," she requested, topping up her wine.
"Are you sure?" I asked before reluctantly cutting her fringe again.
Meanwhile Christine was massaging hand cream into Angela's hands.
"I'll cover your hands with a muslin cloth and then a plastic bag," she explained. "That way the cream will get the chance to soak into your skin."
Suddenly, Mae let out a cry as she caught sight of herself in the mirror. "Oh no! My fringe! It's far too short!"
"Aye, you look like wee Jimmy Krankie!" roared Angela hysterically.
With the girls finally packed off home in a taxi, I started to clean up the beauty products...and then I had a bright idea.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I decided to slather my feet in the luxurious hand cream Christine had left. I then covered each foot with a blue plastic food bag secured with an elastic band.
"If it works on your hands, it must work on your feet," I reasoned as I climbed into bed.
However, just after two in the morning my house phone came to life and the noise was deafening.
Startled and bleary-eyed, I dashed out of bed towards the phone - forgetting I had a slippery food bag on each foot.
The second my feet made contact with the carpet I turned into Bambi on Ice.
I SLIPPED and slid until my legs split in two like a Russian gymnast and I found myself in a position I never thought possible.
Scurrying on my hands and knees I made it to the house phone, which typically rung off just as I got there.
So there I was, 2.30 in the morning, hair dripping with oil, a face like a beacon and my legs askew with a blue food bag tied to each ankle.
As I crawled along the carpet and caught a glimpse of the pitiful sight of myself in the mirrored wardrobe, I thought how young Taylor was so right in his response to our attempt to beautify ourselves when he said "I'll crack the jokes."