At the weekend someone asked me a question I had trouble answering.

I was chuntering on about Liverpool Football Club insuring star Michael Owen's legs for £60 million, when a friend asked: "Which bit of your body do you like best?"

It would have been easier if she'd asked me which bit I liked at all and easier still if she'd asked which bit I hated. Or rather, which bits I hated, because if we are all honest, when asked what we would like to change, most of us would produce a list as long as Claudia Schiffer's legs.

And, funnily enough, even the most beautiful among us have body hang-ups. Ms Schiffer herself, did not want her feet - which she hates - to feature in the saucy TV advert she filmed for Citroen cars, and insisted that a double be used.

As we grow older, we switch allegiance from one bodily part to another.

As kids we hate our hair - I know I did. Can you blame me - it was red (a major blemish), short (at my mother's insistence) and curly. I would stare jealously at girls with long silky hair, and crave any colour but my own.

Teenagers are obsessed with their complexion - I was painfully aware that a million randomly-scattered freckles were not going to win me any beauty contests.

And by this time, we know which bits are our assets (I liked my eyes, and people were always commenting on my cheekbones, so I thought they must be okay too) and which parts we would gladly lop off - I was still distressed about my hair, and the word "cleavage" entered our common room vocabulary, so I stuck that on my Christmas list, too.

Our twenties are dominated by the desire for a larger (usually) or smaller (rarely) bust, a waist no bigger than a tea plate, and long, shapely legs.

Bottoms come under the microscope in the sometimes frenzied hunt for a mate, and we spout the age-old question to friends and family: "Does my bum look big in this?" We succumb to cellulite, detest our thighs and make a beeline for Rosemary Conley books and underwear in slimline lycra.

By thirty-something, those of us who have settled down and got kids couldn't care less about bottoms and busts. We get more uptight about mysterious lines around our eyes, and what looks like biro marks on our thighs. We know our bodies are unsightly, but we're too tired to do anything about it.

From 40 onwards, it's all downhill and nothing short of surgery - and plenty of cash - will bring back that body beautiful (if you were lucky enough to have it in the first place).

So back to the question - my favourite bit. Well, that would have to be my toes. They are long and knobbly (I can pick up a tennis ball with them) and, says my husband, all the wrong sizes. He hates them so much it makes me laugh.

As for insurance - it would have to be my hands which, after all, at a speedy five words a minute on the keyboard, are my livelihood. If I'm lucky, the T&A may stump up a fiver.

Converted for the new archive on 30 June 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.