DON'T be unduly alarmed if you woke up today to find a mangled body on your daughter's bedroom floor.

If the body in question has flowing blonde locks, pointy feet and unfeasibly large boobs with a noticeable absence of anything even vaguely nipplish, your child has just been exercising her right to torture, maim and decapitate her Barbie doll.

If the body bears more of a resemblance to an aged and decidedly doddery member of your close family, do feel free to be slightly alarmed.

My cousins once came downstairs on Christmas morning to discover their mum spread-eagled under the tree. She had slipped on some lethally shiny wrapping paper the night before and had broken her leg on the way down, her calls for help drowned out by the collective snoring of her husband, four kids and two dogs.

They were suitably alarmed, particularly as she was lustily working her way through a bag of chocolate coins while loudly berating them, but don't feel pressured to follow suit if all you find on your carpet is a dismembered doll.

Researchers from the University of Bath have discovered that girls hate Barbie so much that many admit torturing, maiming and even decapitating her.

Apparently, the all-American toy has become a hate figure for seven to 11-year-olds because they regard the pneumatic doll as a "babyish" symbol of their early childhood.

Frankly, I think it's more likely that they hate her because she provides an unrealistic symbol of adulthood, where your waist and wrist size are the same and your teeny, tiny bottom sits prettily at the top of a pair of unfeasibly long, completely stubble-free legs. But what do I know?

In my experience, doll decapitation is a long-held tradition among girls. While I didn't actually torture my Tiny Tears or sacrifice my Sindy doll on a makeshift pink plastic altar, I did wreak havoc on my Girl's World, completely covering her face in queasy green crayon and hacking at her sickeningly glossy blonde locks until only pitiful wisps remained.

My parents were, quite naturally, horrified, but I think that was more to do with the money they had spent rather than any worries about my mental health.

I, on the other hand, felt strangely elated.

It's the same elation I see on my daughter's face when she castigates her dolls, Jo-Jo and Lulu, for poking the cats or weeing on the floor (things she would never dream of doing herself); the elation of discovering you are not at the bottom of the familial pecking order after all.

The two-year-old's vicious rants at her erstwhile favourite dollies are not high up on my list of parental worries though.

At the moment I'm more concerned with her food choices. Much as I hate to admit it, she is showing unmistakable signs of impending vegetarianism.

Given a choice she would live exclusively on veggies with noodles, veggies with wholemeal pasta or veggies with couscous. She will eat a bit of fish just to keep me sweet, but anything vaguely meaty is always carefully picked off her plate and banished to her place mat.

Her behaviour just doesn't fit our family profile. She comes from a long line of dedicated meat-eaters. Her father and grandfather are renowned for their in-depth knowledge of the pie-making process. Her great-grandmother is a grand master in the sacred art of the roast dinner. And her brother can eat more hot dogs than is strictly healthy, even for a boy who appears to be growing at about an inch every 14 hours.

There is, of course, only one obvious conclusion. There was a mix up in the hospital and my real two-year-old is somewhere out there happily filling her face with sausages, pork pies and Spam.

That thought brings quite a lump to my throat.

But that could just be indigestion brought on by the Fray Bentos pie I had for elevenses.

Updated: 08:34 Monday, January 09, 2006