It was my birthday on 10 December. I find it impossibly hard to type the number, so will just say that I could have officially retired 15 years ago. Every year is a portent of approaching death, which will come soon enough. And a reminder of the life force within me that beats fiercely and refuses to lie down quietly.

To put it another way, I am old. But not down and out… yet. The body has become creaky. All sorts of health problems creep up and I have had to change bad old habits. I eat fewer chocs – that’s really, really hard. I walk a whole lot more. I take tablets, have tests at the GP surgery and hospitals, all that stuff.  

Then there are the endless wrestles against signs of ageing. I am often asked if I have Botox. Hand on heart, no. But here’s a confession: 25 years ago, I read an article by a Guardian journalist who had had the bags under her eyes sorted by a........

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