The vast majority of schoolchildren have rudimentary enlightenment into all things birds and bees in what used to be called sex education classes. Starting early on in secondary school (in my day at least), the gentle introduction covers how our bodies change during a magical time in our lives called puberty; girls get periods about every 28 days and some girls stop having periods at the age of 14 when they become professional mothers. I think some classes now do things with condoms and bananas, but back in the early eighties, we were terrified into not having any sex by the government AIDS campaign.

We didn’t have gays back then, just Larry Grayson and Liberace, so we didn’t need to be told about that sort of thing, which only happened after some lesbians invaded the 6 O’Clock news and sat on Sue Lawley.

So essentially, we were told about breasts, periods, sperm, the biology of reproduction and certain aspects of secondary sexual characteristics such as hairy foo-fahs and armpits, oh and sweat and the needs for having a bath and using antiperspirant.

If I was responsible for sex education classes, I’d tell it to them straight: learn to masturbate from an early age because when all else fails, you can always rely on yourself.

The girls would also know from an early age about something terrible that creeps up on them from their late twenties: facial hair. Nobody tells you about this stuff, it’s just there one day. Of course, eyebrows and things are always there, and basic lessons in plucking would be included in the syllabus, but forewarned is forearmed when it comes to beards and moustaches.

The subject would be tackled on a number of lessons, based on need:

1. Bleaching
Sometimes acceptable, but with excessive growth, you need to be careful not to end up looking like Pai Mei.

2. Plucking vs waxing
When my moustache started to become noticeable, there were just the odd couple of darker, thicker hairs that grew at the periphery of my mouth. These could be dealt with quickly and relatively painlessly with a good pair of tweezers (spare no expense here, go for Tweezerman every time). As the years have passed, however, I need to bring out the big guns and wax the whole bloody lot off. This leaves the top lip red, numb and swollen for a number of hours afterwards, so do it when you know you won’t need to leave the house. There may be blood.

Now I’m in my forties, I notice myself checking my chin regularly throughout the day for signs of bristles, running my finger over my chin in a manner akin to a pondering philosopher. There’s also the accompanying face, whereby I stick my chin out slightly and most probably push out my bottom lip with my tongue.

My moustache gets the imaginary Dali treatment.

The problem with facial hair at my age is that I’m now too long sighted to be able to see them, so plucking them requires some sort of Ninja mind trick and a few hopeful stabs with the tweezers.

Of course, my little niece is so blessed to have me has her auntie and life mentor. I will teach her things that nobody else dare mention. She’s an absolute beauty and she’ll grow up to be a stunning young woman, but I’m already eyeing up her eyebrows, waiting for the day when I can give her her first pair of Tweezermans.

Best auntie in the WORLD!