Now I can face up to the Tube every day

Unless I have a suntan and no hangover - which unfortunately isn't often - I try not to inflict my bare face on colleagues.

The few occasions I have, when a 6.30am start robbed me of all hand-eye co-ordination, I was left further exhausted having to bat away enquiries about whether I was ill.

But 10 minutes of beautifying each morning meant I was losing 10 beautiful minutes of sleep. And when you spend an hour commuting, extra duvet moments are glorious.

For all time-poor londoners, achieving two things simultaneously is the Holy Grail. so in recent weeks I've been boarding the Tube armed with pencils, pots and brushes. Making-up is now done on the move.

I admit my first efforts negotiating pushy suits and jolting stops were more reminiscent of edvard Munch's The scream than the understated grooming I was aiming for. But I now have expert knowledge of which stations on the Central and Circle lines have the straightest, calmest track between them.

It's amazing what you can do with an elbow rested against your chest and a blusher brush patiently poised for a moment of stability in a space too small to read a newspaper. And because the mirror is pinned close to your face by other passengers and the lighting is strong, it actually encourages a pretty precise job.

There are limits: putting on mascara still requires a seat.

The biggest revelation, though, is the horrified reaction to my routine. Men physically recoil, twitching and clearing their throats, as if some obscene spectacle is unfolding. Their body language shouts, "stop embarrassing everyone". some even move seats. The women gawp as if I'm breaking some tacit taboo. They know the odd, discreet flick of a compact to check lipstick is OK. But full-on warpaint appliance in public apparently crosses boundaries.

Perhaps it's because it's seen as an intimate process; and laying it bare so unselfconsciously to so many is a slap in the face for the British prude. Perhaps it's because my habit of contorting my face while applying eyeliner, pursing my lips in concentration, just looks plain silly.

I'd already decided a few people thinking I'm odd was a small price for more time in bed when something happened this week.

Other women started following my lead. By the time we'd travelled from east london to the West end, several in my carriage were preening. And as I got off at High street Kensington, one lady who had watched my full transformation stopped me.

"It's great you have the guts to do that - and you do it so well," she said (I'd even managed the mascara). "screw that guy staring at you."

It made me feel like a revolutionary feminist. except, of course, I was wearing make-up.