Is it just me? Or does anyone else feel like blowing Leonardo DiCaprio's nose for him, and telling him to get upstairs and finish his homework? Tucking him in, I can see, but bedding him is just unthinkable.

There is, undeniably, a new wave of Men Who Women Fancy. It is now Boys Who Women And Men Fancy. These pre-toy boys have been variously described as "nu-bucks" and "wunderkinds", and have the sort of plastic aura you would expect from the boyfriend of a Sindy doll. Pre-toys such as Leonardo and Matt Damon have golden locks and skin like babies' bottoms - they've probably even got babies' bottoms, albeit pert ones. Matt's Will, in Good Will Hunting, revealed that he has the sort of body that has "I'm gonna drop my Levi's any minute" written all over it. But I really don't want him to drop his jeans, because I'm sure he still has name tags sewn in his Junior Ys.

OK, lust after the sixth-formers of stage and screen - we all know that's pure fantasy. But this phenomenon - a different interpretation of El Nino, has spread to real life. I first became aware of El Nino in a bar in the City. Yet another good friend was trying to unsingle me, and announced that the sexiest thing she had seen in a long time was her cousin - all 21 years of him. She was sure I'd drop everything, including my knickers, for this fresh-faced graduate, and could arrange a date if I so desired. I imagine the meeting. I am sitting Mrs Robinson-like on my sofa, purring at Pre-Toy across the room. No, no, no - it just doesn't work.

A night on the town with your average (non-actor) pre-toy: no credit card, no emotional baggage, then when you get home they can't even undo your bra strap, much less find your G-spot. The thought is too awful. Call me old-fashioned, but I like a man with a crag in his face and a glint in his eye - Aidan Quinn and Bill Paterson (personal favourites) have got pints more substance than a Hollywood high-schooler, and don't make you feel a lecherous old tart when you're only 29.

Doomed never to escape from the El Nino phenomenon, I am dining with a female friend and a gay male friend when the conversation comes round to "what was your most exotic bonk?" He recounts how he had this same conversation with a group of gay friends. Each conquest was apparently met with ever-loudening whoops of jealousy and disbelief; then it came to him. He really thought he had had the ultimate in exotic - a Tunisian soldier, in uniform. So big whoops for him, until someone casually piped up "Well, I once had a 19-year-old Amish boy." Stunned silence. Everyone else's conquests paled into insignificance. But the wondrousness of this is lost on us girls. Honey - you're welcome to him, we agree. Amish boys don't even have button flies. We'll take Harrison Ford. Post-toy, probably even post-mature.