I’ve always been a keen subscriber to the “You’re only as old as you feel” philosophy (especially since turning 30, funnily enough). Most days I can convince myself that I feel around 17, if I avoid the mirror and visualise my particular inner 17-year-old as a shrieking banshee with baby puke on her jeans.

But other days it’s a struggle.

On my most recent visit to the hairdresser, the salon assistant asked me if I would like some magazines. Suppressing the real answer (“This is the only time every two months that I get to sit and read magazines for an hour so – hell yeah!!”), I nodded and watched approvingly in the mirror as the youth sifted through the magazines on the table behind me, clearly taking pains with the selection. I berated myself for pre-judging him by his appearance – electric blue Mohican, waistband practically around his knees and studs through every available flap of skin – and reminded myself to be more open-minded. What did he finally bring? “Good Housekeeping”.

Sometimes the subtle messages come from those closest to you. Hot was going to the supermarket last week and I asked him to get me some shampoo without specifying what kind (hair again!! aaargh). He returned with a very expensive-looking bottle and proudly handed it over. The label read “For tired, stressed hair.”

I’m not saying that I think everyone I know is commenting behind my back on how much I’ve aged lately. That would be ridiculous. I’m just saying – just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you.

(Did I just quote a rock star that most of today’s under-25s have probably never heard of?)