About Me

There it is. Written on a fragile paper certificate. 1962.

The year of my birth, which means I’m 60. This seems so utterly ridiculous, I’ve counted it out on my fingers to check. Because I only feel 28. Ok, some days, 38 and three quarters. But 60? Never.

A few friends have already reached this milestone, although most didn’t treat it as a neon-lit occasion. Maybe because it’s etched in our collective memories as the once pensionable age for women. A segue into a more sedate life.

For my mum, that meant more gardening and what she called dressmaking (even when she was sewing trousers). Among my aunts, there was an attendant push to buy as much beige clothing as budgets would allow, the signature piece being the Dannimac Royale.

Me? I won’t become a pensioner any time soon because successive governments, with the smooth moves of a sound engineer in an edit suite, have pushed that particular slider to 67. Although I do get a 60+ Oyster card from TfL. And it is while clutching this particular pearl, I’m refusing to transit these years under the radar. After all, I’ll be a sexagenarian, which as a term for the mature sounds surprisingly flattering.

I’d rather take my lead from the Japanese. As a Vogue Japan columnist for many years, I learned your 60th is a punch-the-air moment. It’s called ‘Kanreki’ and roughly translates to being reborn. When your household responsibilities pass to younger successors, symbolised by bunging them a rice paddle. The festivities offer a period of reflection and represent a fresh start.

First then, the reflection. Well, I’ve done stuff. Went to uni. Got married. Got divorced. Wanted children but was never with anyone whose procreative desires ran parallel to mine. Edited magazines. Done heaps of interviews – everyone from Hollywood heavyweights to Mongolian eagle hunters. And James May (fave). Got married again later in life. Navigated my mum through dementia. Did a polar plunge (without a wetsuit). Hiked to the mountain gorillas. Suffered anxiety most days. Battled with OCD. And had a breakdown. So, you know, up and down.

More reflection; the last six decades have dissolved like a fast-acting Disprin, yet so much has changed. It only seems five minutes ago phoning a friend meant traipsing to the callbox up the street. Now, I can pocket-dial a Sherpa in the Himalayas. As for light entertainment, I grew up watching The Generation Game, where contestants created wobbly clay pots to win cuddly toys. Now we have dating shows based purely on the perusal of other people’s privates. Some days, I’m struck by the sheer magnitude of progress. Other times, I just shake my head.

As for the rebirth part, I’ve started indoor cycling to drum‘n’bass (tough) and Fight Klub (strangely therapeutic). I’m fitter now than I was in my 40s. I don’t think I always look my age, which I put down to a brisk metabolism, a healthy diet, ballet classes and younger friends. But mainly Botox.

I still love fashion. When us boomers were small kids, we believed that come the millennium, we’d be slipping into silver spacesuits, a sartorial projection that never came to pass despite Marc Jacobs’ various brushes with Lurex. But once we’d been bewitched by what Stevie Nicks could do with a bit of chiffon and a top hat, individuality became the way to go. Hence I’m eschewing any elderly kit and sticking with my tulle skirts and biker boots. My knitted shorts. My fedoras.

I’ve always worked for magazines from Elle to Marie Claire. My last full-time role was editor of Harrods Magazine. After I left there, I spent three years in the work doldrums and ended up with depression, until the Telegraph Magazine took me on as its lead columnist. I entitled my column ‘What is 60 for?’ and it ran for about six months. It received heaps of positive feedback but sadly, it was stopped in its tracks just as I was picking up speed. I’m now writing beauty. Which is great. Which is more than great. But not so great for my ‘What is 60 for?’ column. It was the one time I truly felt I was doing what I was supposed to be doing. So that’s why I’ve set up my own blog. To give it a new home. To continue to give more mature types a voice. To entertain those who are younger if they're interested in hearing from an oldie like me. And hopefully, to build a place where we can all have a bit of a laugh. I hope you will join me every week.