Even now, decades on from the glamorous 1960s and my youthful prime, I still find it hard to accept that I’m old. After all, I can run upstairs (on a good day), kick a ball with the grandchildren (ten minutes max) and continue to cling to that hoary old chestnut of age being just a number — and that you’re only as old as you feel. At fun reunion lunches with a gang of my old (in both senses) model friends, we call ourselves the Golden Oldies. So I had to laugh when my youngest granddaughter, with her sparkly, Persil-white teeth, recently peered at me curiously and said: ‘Why are your teeth sort of golden, Gran–gran?’ There are certainly moments when I feel every second of my 82 years. And I’ll admit that a fair few come when I look in the mirror, because there’s no quicker reminder that I’m a long way from that young creature who was showered with compliments in my teens.
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