I have worn no make-up for a week. Not a scrap. No face powder, no mascara, no blusher. Nothing, apart from lip balm, which in my book is medicinal, so doesn't count.

Don't get me wrong, the no make-up thing wasn't me taking a stand, nor was it intentional. I went to a music festival for the weekend, packed my usual bucketful of toiletries forgetting I would have to lug the darn things from the car park to the camp site, and ended up with more than I could carry. On the return journey, a friend took pity on me and offered to take my excess baggage with her. As she was leaving early, this meant I'd have to pick up my stuff, make-up bag included, from her house at a later date. Monday turned into Tuesday, which turned into Wednesday and, before I knew it, a whole week had passed, sans make-up bag.

Normally, this wouldn't be a problem: at the last count I have three make-up bags, a bathroom tidy full of overspill and a desk drawer that could rival Selfridges' beauty hall. Except that I'd just had a clear-out, both at home and work. As a result, all that was left was my bare essentials and proper "going out" make-up - and not even I wear bright green eye shadow to the office.

Yes, I know I could have gone out and restocked, but it seemed pointless. Besides, I'm not so vain that I can't be seen without my "face", such as it is. Except, of course, I am - so I spent the week fretting about the shininess of my skin, the thinness of my eyelashes and the lack of definition of my cheekbones.

But you know what? Friends have not taken me to one side and asked me quietly what's wrong, I have not been refused entry to any establishment and children have not run screaming at the sight of my naked face. In fact, I'd even go so far as to say that not a single person seems to have noticed the difference. But none of this matters, because the truth, of which it is easy to lose sight, is that I wear make-up because I love it, and I wear it for me, not them.