The hands of time...

... sadly, there's no stopping them. Time keeps marching on and (cliche alert) we are all getting older. Every second, every minute, every day. So far I've been counting myself lucky - I'm thirty-nine and don't have any grey hairs yet, or at least any that show through the highlights. Today, therefore, I was horrified to discover threadveins on my decollete. (Sorry French people, I don't have any accents on this computer.) This I really don't need at all. I'm going to have to buy some more "Second Skin" by Max Factor.*

The problem with getting older, or at least noticing that you are, is that if you talk to younger people about it, they pretend to sympathise, but really they're thinking, I've got years yet. And if you go to older people, they just tell you that it will only get worse. Their favourite expression: "It's all downhill from here!" So you're pretty much restricted to people who are exactly the same age as you, give or take a year. My ideal role model would be someone, let's say, two years older than me, who looks amazing, but displays all the same signs of ageing as I do, just a little bit more advanced. This would simultaneously inspire me and make me feel young. Not that I'm shallow at all, you understand.

*Buy some - it's FAB!