For years, I'd been shaving my muff within an inch of its life, following Cashmere's comment that "hair traps smells".

Not that I had a bulk of sofa stuffing down there beforehand, far from it - I kept it short and neat and the sides clean enough to prevent offense to eyes which spied on me in my bikini.

The first razor adventure (resulting in me nipping my labia with the electric trimmer, as detailed in my book) was only the beginning and left me completely bald, until I discovered the joy of KB's five-bladed Wilkinson with the silver handle, and the appeal of the landing strip.

However, there's a reason that the general ladygarden area is called a pussy: its silky hair, if left au naturale.

Nowadays, this bizarrely doesn't seem to appeal to grown men anymore, although many of them leave their own hedges untended - unless they suffer from a mushroom cock, severe penis envy or are firmly convinced metrosexuals not averse to the "boyzilian" or experiments with their own electric trimmer.

Instead, they prefer the bald appearance reminiscent of nine-year old girls in slutty underwear, ideally topped by a bulging DD chest with rock-hard nipples.

Well, sorry boys - no apology needed actually - I am very proud of my soft and cuddly hairy patch of silky ladygarden, and I am not ashamed of its smell.

After all, why pretend a pussy should smell like a rose? Would you like a rose that smells of cunt?
No. Neither should you want a clit that tastes of a bar of soap.

Of course, washing is essential. We wash our dishes, our cars, clothes, arm pits and toilets, so good intimate hygiene will of course improve your own natural smell. Hearing tales of girls who taste of piss and feeling like the human equivalent of a flannel when faced with carefully cultivated cock cheese I shudder and want to spit on my keyboard in disgust.

I said "don't try to smell like a rose", not "make sure your crotch attracts the flies".

On the other hand, there is something appealing to the smell of my fingers after running them through my thatch after a vigorous run in clingy sports underwear. Fragrant and musty, like wood moss on trees in the autumn. Warm and familiar, a smell that says: "sniff me, go on" rather than repungently repulsive.

I am not surprised some choose to rub their silky secretions behind their ear in moderation.

Of course I wash my hand (and my body) after the above exploration of my intimate smell, after all when I am finished running I am dripping with sweat and the shower is calling.

I don't revel in my own BO like Bitchy Jones, and neither would I expect anyone else. Nor do I expect to be confronted with a sticky man-jungle or day-old, sweaty pits.

If anyone bolts screaming from my beedroom door when they are confronted with the fluffy appearance of an adult woman, I will happily wave them to the horizon.

Has anyone seen that YouTube song: 'Hairy Bush Woman'? They sing: 'It's like you got pants on - but you're naked' and features an array of Barbie-like chicks with huge clumps of wigs-turned merkins sticking out of panties small enough to double up as tea bags.

Sorry honey, did you miss the memo? I haven't got pants on, I AM naked. Just because no one-eyed snake is poking out of my bush doesn't mean I have any more clothes on than you do.