It was one of those wicked nights when I rang a friend. She'd had three daughters and a grand daughter on the phone for four hours and I was on a high from a brilliant jazz class at Dance City. "So did you celebrate Mother's Day"? I asked. "Mother's Day!" she exploded. "I don't believe in it. Every day should be Mother's Day". Her logic did not escape me.

It was then the great idea emerged. And like all great ideas no one can remember who said it first. Daughter's Day. "Daughters are much put upon", said my friend. "We need an emblem. Perhaps a ballerina". "What!". I exclaimed. "Ballet classes are the first remembered example of parental cruelty" So no emblem then. What about gifts? Flowers? No, perfume - and maybe money. Originally we thought the third Sunday in June. But wasn't that near Father's Day? And by then any self-respecting daughter would be out in Guatemala or lassoing sheep on the Outback. But come the third Sunday of September they would be returning home unperfumed and highly broke. So that's September 18th this year. How about spreading the good word by e mailing all your friends and getting them to continue the good work, maybe including this article, and a few more backup arguments.

With marriage now out of vogue, when do we celebrate vibrant women with a special day - apart from bits of bodies in the Sun, pop interviews or furtive pornography?

As for money? Well the taxman allows a gift of £5,000 on marriage, so 5% interest on that each year would come to £250 and there'd still be £5,000 in the piggy bank if darling daughter ever took the plunge. So how about it Mums and Dads? And if you've a daughter make sure they hear about it.

W.B. tynetees.com


Five years ago none suspected that deodorants might cause breast cancer. But now some researchers are claiming a connection between a rise in left breast cancer and underarm squirting by deodorant-wielding right-handers. Surely on that basis they should check whether left-handed women have more right breast cancer? Now it's open season on deodorants, how about this theory?….

In a recent TV programme the investigator was asked to sniff 4 T-shirts in order of likeable smell. T-shirt A he found revolting - it had been worn by a pig. B wasn't much better - it was his own smell. C was o k - worn by a member of the opposite sex. And D was great - worn by a young lady with a different immune system to his own. Apparently we unconsciously choose partners with different immune systems to improve the human race's fight against infection. But what happens if we use deodorants? Of course, woman have been using perfume for yonks, but men haven't. So the clued up women was still choosing the immune o k mate. Now men have gone overboard on disguising their natural smell. Does this create far more incompatible couples, who finally smell the truth and head straight for the divorce courts - with a whole bunch of sickly kids in tow? Looks like dating might be a whole new ball game from now on.

So the big social question is to deodorize or not to deodorize. Perhaps we could revert to wearing essential oils specially coded by immune system. So rose for immuno type one, juniper for type two, sandalwood for three, and so on. Seeking always the contrary scent never shall two roses intertwine. I have had some success with geranium. One night reeking of the stuff I rolled up to the local pub to greet fellow dancers, "You smell nice", said the first girl. "Mm, you smell like Turkish Delight" said the second. Clearly my luck was in and I went to buy the drinks. Unfortunately, on my return they had a little job for me.

Apparently one of the men in the dance class neither washed nor wore deodorant and they wanted me to tell him he was Mr Smelly.

Needless to say, the opportunity never arose. But my guilt climaxed the evening Mr Smelly was five men ahead of me and the women dancers were rotated five men on. Each of my new partners arrived literally gagging for breath. No chance then of Mr Smelly finding an incompatible mate. In fact no chance with anyone.

Yet believe it or not, Mr Smelly was trumped by a fellow dancer who always arrived in an immaculately ironed shirt. Unfortunately, he never washed it, so each week baked in the smell.

Maybe we should just go for the breast cancer and divorce.