That thought made me choke a little on my Sauvignon Blanc as a vision of her in full Mother of the Bride regalia flashed into my head. Admittedly, she looked elegantly beautiful in a navy and maroon ensemble with a matching hat. But her outfit was very definitely middle-aged. And there I was, a whole year older than she'd been then, slopping white wine down the front of my H&M t-shirt and Topshop jeans.

The words mutton and lamb sprang to mind and it wasn't because I was leafing through Jamie Oliver's cookbook. (Honestly, the amount of plugs I give that boy. You'd think by now he'd have called to say lovely-jubbly, wouldn't you? But I guess all his time these days is taken up with caring for his misshapen vegetables. That and ridding the world of turkey twizzlers.)

I voiced my MDAL concerns to Mr Young as we were waiting in a queue of traffic on Bourges Boulevard.

"I'll have to start wearing beige soon," I said.

"What?" he said.

"Beige," I said. "Like that old lady over there." I pointed out an elderly woman in beige anorak and slacks who was purposefully towing a shopping trolley.

"What are you talking about?" he said, with that rising note of irritation inherent in all our conversations these days.

"Beige!" I said loudly. "It's what you have to wear when you get older. Unless you want to look like mutton dressed as lamb." He was conspicuously silent.

"Do you think you'd tell me if I ever started dressing inappropriately for my age?" I asked him.

"Well, I haven't so far," he said, smirking. Hilarious. He wouldn't find it quite so funny with a shopping trolley wrapped round his head.

Thursday

Ms Jones and I treated Ms Smith to a birthday meal at Pizza Express. Halfway through, I excused myself to go to the loo.

"Yes, you might as well go now because we want to talk about something that you definitely won't be interested in," said Ms Smith.

"Oh yes, and what's that?" I said, sitting firmly back down again. The Ladies could wait. (Even if it is the loveliest toilet in the whole of Peterborough-land. Honestly. Look for yourself if you don't believe me.)

"Tap dancing," said Ms Smith.

"Oooh, yes! Tap dancing!" squealed Ms Jones, clapping her hands at the very thought. It turned out that they were planning to take classes together.

"So is it because I'm older than the two of you that makes you think I wouldn't be interested in tap dancing?" I asked them, feeling quite left out.

"Oh no - it's because you're not a TAP dancer. You're more THIS sort of dancer..." said Ms Smith, waving her head and arms about grotesquely and grimacing. "More of a Pan's People type of dancer. You know, all sort of oooh-oooh disco with a feather boa."

The two of them found this hilarious. Once again, I mourned the absence of a handy shopping trolley.

Friday

Woke up to a beautiful spring morning and realised how ridiculous I've been just lately.

Like the poem says, I should be celebrating my age by wearing purple with a red hat that doesn't suit me and going out in the rain in my slippers. Not worrying about looking like mutton dressed as lamb.

And by the way - if I want to learn to tap dance, then I damn well will. Maybe even with a purple feather boa.