I must admit it? I’ve aged beautifully. But I’d be a serious derelict to duty if I didn’t also confess that no one has noticed.

Nobody loves me. Nobody wants me. Trust me, I know. I’ve pored over endless columns under the slugs Brides Wanted and Situations Vacant, but I don’t answer to any of the descriptions listed therein. I am not ‘fair’, nor ‘homely’, nor ‘computer-literate’ nor ‘25 years old’. Poor me.

Poor Liz Hurley, actually. The week saw her ceding her position as the face of makeup and fragrance icon Estee Lauder to the younger Gwyneth Paltrow. What’s worse is they kicked her upstairs to represent their Re-Nutriv skincare line. And we know which generation that is pointed at. Is there anything more puncturing?

An item caught my eye the other day. A statement by Yasmin Yusuf, who The Observer describes as “one of the most powerful people in British fashion”. “It’s not about age anymore,” pronounced the doyenne, “it’s about attitude”. Yeah. Rrrright. For people who are led to believe they have passed their fertile prime, that was good news indeed.

And then, she let the side down with a thud. Clothing style, she went on to add, was aimed at the “35-to-40” age group. Forty. That was the cut-off date. After that, I gather, we’re supposed to die or something.

Okay, okay, I may be shouted out in the numbers game, but I’ll go down fighting.

Yusuf was wrong. It is about age. It will always be. The number of candles on your cake will forever dictate what you wear, your job description and who you are presumed to be.

Which is why Camilla, who is Duchess of Cornwall and maybe even Queen-to-be, is better known as the president of UK’s National Osteoporosis Society. (Would they have dared to offer Diana the job?)

Which is why Jo Bole So Nihaal wasn’t the first time Sunny Deol played a Sikh. The actor’s hair had so drastically shed itself, the casting people felt compelled to do something about it. As it turned out, they pulled off a cosmetic coup. They covered his head decorously with a turban before they shooed him under the arclights.

Which is why my birthday each year is such an exercise in humility. What will my son give me this time, I begin asking myself hopefully each October. A lipstick, a phial of pure perfume, a G-string? I’ll tell you what he gave me last year. A back scratcher.

To him ? and the rest of the world ? mine isn’t middle age. It’s senescence.

You’ll hear more about this soon, don’t worry. There’s life in the old girl yet.