I have a birthday this weekend. It isn’t one that, in the grand scheme of things, is particularly noteworthy. Not like reaching the giddy heights of 18 or 21. Nor does it end in a zero or even a five, yet there is something about turning 47 that feels a significant milestone.

Partly as it means the big 5-0 is now only a veritable hop, skip and jump away, but also because when I was younger, I used to think of 47 as my “scary age”. It was the point at which I couldn’t visualise what my life would actually look like.

It reminded me of the song Que Sera, Sera, but instead of ruminating “Will I be pretty? Will I be rich?”, I wondered whether I’d have caved to the outdated stereotype that women of a certain age shouldn’t have long hair. Or finally managed to save a sufficient deposit to buy a house.

The answer to those questions, as I now know, are no and yes in that order. I was reflecting on this the other day when it suddenly........

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